one day soon (I'll hold you like the sun holds the moon)
by Tarafina
Summary: Damon's never been one to consider the consequences, so when his actions cause the death of his first love, Bonnie Bennett, he'll do anything to make it right. Including making a deal with a witch. [reincarnation fic]
1. coward

**title:** one day soon (I'll hold you like the sun holds the moon)  
 **category** : the vampire diaries (tv)  
 **genre** : drama/romance  
 **ship** : bonnie/damon  
 **rating** : mature  
 **warning(s)** : period-typical racism (discussion of lynching) ; sexual content ; violence  
 **word count** : 5,695  
 **summary** : Damon's never been one to consider the consequences, so when his cowardice causes the demise of his first love, he'll do anything to make it right. Including making a deal with a witch. [reincarnation fic]

* * *

 **I.**

 ** _1863_**

"We shouldn't be doing this." She's hardly convincing with how breathless she sounds.

"Says who?" Damon kisses up the slope of her neck, his fingers make quick work of untying the ribbons at the front of her dress.

Bonnie raises a teasing brow. "Should I wonder why your fingers are so nimble?"

He smirks back at her and draws the front of her dress open, hands sliding beneath the rough fabric to palm her breasts. He presses his forehead to hers as her breath hitches. Her teasing expression washes away in a flood of arousal.

"Perhaps I have dreamt of us meeting like this so consistently that I have unwittingly learned a new task."

She arches up into his touch and meets his heady gaze. "You dream of me often, Mister Salvatore?"

He huffs a laugh. "Far more than polite company would suggest."

"Polite company doesn't suggest so much as _order_... I am beneath you, or have you not noticed?"

"I'd quite like you beneath me." He drags his nose down the length of hers. "When have I ever cared for something as ridiculous as status?"

"You have the privilege not to," she reminds him. "I am not so lucky."

Damon pauses, a pressure in his throat that threatens emotional transparency he has been taught to avoid for so much of his life. "Would you ask that I stop?" His hands are still familiar with her breasts, soft and warm, lifting with each breath she takes. He can feel her pearled nipples under his thumbs.

"Would you?" she wonders, staring up at him with a surprising amount of uncertainty.

His head tips, a lurch in his heart that pains him. "You think I would force myself upon you?"

"I think polite company would accept force more than love." She bites her lip and swallows tightly. "I'm a servant, Damon. A _slave_. When you tire of me, I will return to my lowly status. Tending to you and your genteel wife and your white children, afforded everything me and my own can never hope to have..."

"Who says I will tire of you?" He shakes his head, slides a hand up to curl around her neck, thumb pressing at the hinge of her jaw to tip her head back. "You think me a cretin?"

"I think you a _man_..." She stares up at him searchingly. "A man of money and power and status. And I am a woman of none of those."

"Perhaps not for long. If the war is won out of our favor, you will be freed."

She scoffs. "And naive too."

His knuckles skim lightly along her delicate collar bones. "The world isn't as simple as Mystic Falls. We can leave here, find somewhere more... _liberal_." He presses against her, the length of him meeting every curve and dip of her body. "I never wanted a genteel wife."

"You never wanted a wife period, _scoundrel_." She says it with fondness, a smile ticking up her mouth.

He grins, gaze falling to her lips. "Say yes. Run away with me."

"You're playing with fire," she murmurs, shaking her head faintly. "Always so keen to court trouble."

"Is that what you are, Little Bird? Fire and trouble."

"Sounds apt enough."

He tucks his fingers in the gaping front of her dress, teasing at the skin across the top of her stomach. "What am I then?"

"Not water, I know that much."

"No? Hm. Perhaps the oil to your fire then..." He skates his fingers higher, between the valley of her breasts. "Or are we one in the same?"

She leans up into him, presses a hand to his chest. The softness of his clothes, of his clean vest compared to her old and worn dress, is a testament to so much. But she slides her hand under the vest, under the neck of his shirt too, until her palm is atop his heart, skin to skin. That too is a contrast, of color and life and privilege.

"In some respects," she tells him, "we are all too similar."

His lips brush against the arch of her cheek, familiar and smooth. They have been doing this dance for so long, for too long. He can remember her as early as childhood, standing tall amongst her mother and aunts, moving through the kitchen with ease. She'd fascinated him, those sharp green eyes, glaring at him when he stole food or pestered the others for attention. She had a quick tongue, one she wasn't hesitant to direct at him. As a precocious young boy, he hadn't liked it at first. Hadn't liked how she questioned and pushed and nagged at him. But as he grew older, he came to enjoy it, to want it, want _her_. It wasn't right, wasn't proper or allowed. But Damon could still remember the day he fell in love with her, twelve years old and absolutely certain that no one would ever know or challenge him quite like she did. Ten years later, and he was still certain of that.

"A good foundation for marriage then," he decides

She shakes her head, lets out a little huff of a laugh. "What makes you so sure that we would be any more accepted in the rest of the world? I can't hide my skin, Damon. I am who I am no matter where I am."

"I don't want you to hide." His thumb rubs up her neck, feels her pulse beating heavy under his touch. "I like your skin just as it is."

She tilts her chin up to see him, a serious expression crossing her face. "Not everyone is like you. Fear and ignorance drives too many. We wouldn't stand a chance out there."

"Maybe not," he allows. "But more of one than we have here."

She swallows tightly, lets her eyes fall a moment. "We would have nothing... To start over completely..."

"We would have enough." He thinks briefly of his father's safe, of the combination (Stefan's birthday), and knows there's plenty there to give them a chance, at least. "Say yes," he bids again, tipping her chin up once more. He's close enough that her lips skim his.

She meets his eyes, her expression slowly growing more hopeful. "You love me."

It's not a question, more a statement than anything, but he answers regardless. "Devotedly."

She nods, smiling brightly, and has never looked more stunning. "I love you too."

A breath leaves his chest in a relieved gust. "Then we should go soon. _Tomorrow_. We can-"

The door to the study bursts open, crashes against the wall, and Damon whirls, his eyes wide, to find his father standing before him, his face pinched red with anger. He can feel her moving behind him, quickly trying to cover herself, and he steps in front of her to hide her from his father's wrathful gaze.

"You soil yourself with our staff," Giuseppe spat. "Haven't you brought enough shame to our name?"

Damon swallows tightly. "Father-"

"Silence," he yells, and Damon flinches, leaning back as if a blow is imminent. "I have given you more chances than I can count, and still you find ways to disappoint me. A _slave_ , Damon. Have you no respect?"

His jaw ticks; for a variety of reasons, he supposes. Not the least of which is that he knows for a fact his father had impregnated a maid, that she bore him a son. More than that, however, it's the unnecessary disgust in his tone regarding Bonnie. "She's not-"

"This is your mother's doing. Allowing you to spend so much time with them. Teaching them to read, to write, giving them rights that no one else would give them. And what do they offer me in return, hm? Seduction and lies."

"Father, if you would just _listen_ -"

"I've heard quite enough." Giuseppe waves a hand. "You would leave our reputation in tatters and steal away in the night. Abandon your family to clean up your messes once again. And _you_..." he directs past Damon's shoulder with a stab of his finger. "After all my family has done for yours. Nothing but a common whore."

"That's _enough_!" Damon shouts, his hands balled into fists. "I won't allow you to speak to her that way."

"So this is what it takes for my son to finally grow a spine?"

Damon winces, casting his eyes away. "If you heard us speaking, then you know that we plan to marry. Father, _please_..."

"Marry," Giuseppe scoffs. "You'll do no such thing."

"I-"

"She'll be punished for her part in this and return to the kitchens, where she _belongs_. She's lucky I don't have her _hanged_."

He can feel her hand clutching at the back of his shirt and wishes he could reach for her, soothe her somehow, but he knows his actions will only make it worse.

"As for you..." Giuseppe's eyes are bleak as they meet his son's. "You will re-earn my respect, beginning immediately. You're joining the war effort in the morning, and I won't hear another word about it." He looks between them, a sneer on his mouth. "Say your farewells, it'll be the last you see of each other."

The study door slams behind him as he leaves and Damon lets out a rushed breath before he turns to face her, his hands finding her shoulders and squeezing. "Are you all right?"

Bonnie's mouth is quivering and she keeps her eyes down, on the open flag of fabric across his chest. She's trembling, but he can see how desperate she is to pretend she isn't. The way her stubborn chin raises in defense. He's always loved that about her, how quick she is to fight back and stand up. Admiration for something he himself has never been able to do, as tonight has clearly highlighted.

"I... I'm sorry," he whispers.

Her eyes raise then, littered with tears and filled with a fire that dims to misery. "You are," she says, like an accusation, and she pulls her shoulders from his hands. "What would you have done if we had faced trouble in our escape? If the world wasn't so receptive to us? Would you have run? Defended me? Simply accepted their word as truth?" She waves a hand to the door. "I knew you were naive, Damon. I didn't know you were a coward."

He closes his eyes at the sting of her remark. "He's my _father_..."

"And I was to be your wife," she grits out thickly, a tear trickling down her cheek. "But now, just as I always knew, I will be nothing more than the servant I always was."

He shakes his head and reaches for her. "We can still run. We have tonight. We have _now_ ," he insists.

"To what end?" Her shoulders fall and she draws herself out of reach. Her chin loses that stubborn tilt and his heart breaks for it. "You cannot run and hide forever. _I_ will not run for all my life." She hugs her arms around herself and steps past him toward the door.

"You love me," he calls after her, desperately.

"I do," she admits, her voice thick with sorrow. "But it's not enough."

The room feels hollow when she's gone, or perhaps that's him. He slides down the wall to sit on the floor. The joy of before, the hope in a future he's wanted for half his life, has fled. He almost had a wife, someone he loved beyond reason, and now all he has is a gun waiting for him, a fight he doesn't want to be a part of, and a future he has no desire to see through. But she is right, he thinks, as his head falls back against the wall.

He truly is a coward.

* * *

 ** _1864_**

He writes to her. Long letters begging forgiveness, begging for any scrap of her attention. He worries for months that she's not getting them, that perhaps his father has intervened somehow and all his sincere words of making this up to her, of being a man she can be proud of, of not being the coward he's been for far too long, have been lost.

But then he gets a letter in return, in her slanted scrawl. He still remembers his mother teaching her, how proud she always was of all that Bonnie had accomplished. Lily adored her. His mother, in comparison to his father, was a saint. He wonders sometimes how she would have reacted to his falling for her favorite pupil. He'll never know. The five year anniversary of her death has recently passed and he feels it like a knife to the gut. She always understood him, soft and kind-hearted where his father was hard and dismissive.

Bonnie's first letter is short, it warns him that he shouldn't write, that he's taking unnecessary risks and should focus on keeping his head on his shoulders. He grins, reads between the lines to find her concern for him, and a love that still burns. They are fire, each of them, and he's willing to do anything to keep it alive. He keeps writing, gets poetic in his longing for her, and slowly, her letters become warmer, become what he remembered. They give him comfort when the war dedicates itself to dragging him down. But then the letters stop. It's abrupt and confusing and he won't lie, it scares him.

It's a collection of things. A lack of response from her, a heavy soul from the war, and a truly crushing feeling of being unable to continue to battle for something he doesn't believe in. He deserts the Confederacy and makes his way home, all the while wondering if that makes him more or less of a coward. He knows he'll have to face his father, but he doesn't care. Nothing Giuseppe can do or say will ever compare to what he's seen and done.

He searches for her first. He's still in his Confederate uniform, dirty and worn as it is, and he feels decades older than his 23 years. But there's a brightness that comes over him, a hope that warms his heart, as he sees home for the first time in nearly a year. He searches the entire house, confused when he can't find her anywhere. The staff avoids his curious eyes and he eventually makes his way out to the gardens, to where he can hear his brother's voice.

Stefan's chasing around a woman in a full, grey dress, and Damon thinks back to one of Bonnie's letters, of a new house guest named Katherine Pierce and her growing affections with Stefan. He walks along the bushes and watches curiously as his brother and Miss Pierce flirtatiously court one another.

"I'd ask you to excuse the interruption, but I can't say I care whether you do," he eventually calls out.

Stefan whirls toward him, his face brightening. "You've been given leave!"

"'Given' is not the word I'd use, nor is it one the Confederacy would see fit to offer me," he admits, standing with a grin.

With an amused snort, Stefan walks toward him. "Your commitment to the Confederacy is inspiring."

Damon stands to meet him and they collide in a rough, brotherly hug. He sinks into it a moment. He'd missed Stefan, far more than he expected to, and it feels good to have his little brother back in front of him. He claps his shoulder a few times before they let go.

"I was already in the house. Haven't seen father yet, but I'm sure the staff will warn him of my arrival..." He takes a step back and casts a glance toward Miss Pierce but quickly returns it to Stefan. "I was hoping I might have a private word with you..."

"Far be it from me to get in between a brotherly reunion." Miss Pierce flashes a grin at them and then turns to leave. "I look forward to getting to know you better, Mister Salvatore."

"And I you, Miss Pierce." He nods, casting a rakish grin toward her that feels forced. His brother didn't seem to notice how disingenuous it was, however, as he did have a reputation with women that had taken some time to build up.

He turns back to Stefan then and his expression becomes serious. "She wasn't in the kitchens. I've searched for her but I can't find her. And the last letter that I have is dated back months..." He doesn't bother to hide his worry and he knows it's playing out in fine detail across his face.

Stefan's face falls and his eyes drop to the ground, a worrisome sight if ever Damon saw one. His heart tightens in his chest. "Stefan... Where is Bonnie?"

His brother's throat bobs. "Damon, I... I'm so sorry. Father found the letters. I'm not sure how he knew, but he did, and he... He wasn't happy when he found them."

Dread fills him, a cold flush that fills him from head to toe. "What happened? Where is she?"

Stefan meets his eyes, and he can see it there, knows with absolute certainty that he's lost her.

He shakes his head. " _No_..."

"I tried to reason with him. I told him that we could simply send her away, that it didn't have to be like this, but... He was drinking and you know how his mood fouls when he-"

"Don't make excuses for him!" he snarls.

"I'm not," Stefan insists. "I only want you to understand the circumstances."

"The circumstances." He laughs bitterly. "He killed her. He..."

His stomach twists and curdles, and before he knows it, he's leaning over, vomiting in the grass. His brother holds him up, an arm around his waist, but Damon wishes he'd let him go. Let him fall into the pool of vomit in front of him, let him die like the cowardly excuse of a man he is. Tears bite at his eyes and he shakes his head, closes them against the sting. But he can see her face, see that perpetual smirk always lingering at the corner of her lips, and God, he misses her. Loves her. Hates himself for his part in her death.

"She left you a letter. I... She gave it to me to hold onto for you. She didn't want me to send it to you, worried it might distract you and you would do something..."

"That I might lay down and die in the trenches like the dog I am," he mutters, and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. It won't be the last time he's sick over this, not by far. "I want the letter."

"Perhaps it should wait, until you've had time to rest and recuperate." Stefan eyes him worriedly. "You don't look well, brother."

"I want the _letter_ , Stefan."

He nods against his better judgement and leads Damon back into the house. It's hollow, reeking of loud shadows and memories that once kept him warm on the battlefield and now send a chill down his spine.

Stefan digs the letter out from a drawer and holds it aloft. "It was very quick," he says. "She was brave."

Damon glares at him, snatches the letter from his hand. "She shouldn't have had to be. We should have left that night. Should have run while we had the chance."

"Damon..."

"I _loved_ her." His mouth quivers. "And it _killed_ her."

Stefan shakes his head, but has no words to say otherwise, no argument to offer him, and that's what Damon wants. He wants a fight. He wants someone to scream and rage and battle against him. He gets nothing, so he leaves with his letter and the weight of his shame heavy on his shoulders. It's a weight he'll grow all too familiar with.

* * *

Apologies are never more hollow than when they are made to a grave.

Wood marks where Bonnie was laid to rest, rather than the monument he deems more fitting.

He's drunk the first time he sits before it, a bottle still in his hand. He's also crying, spilling apologies and excuses like they go hand in hand. For him, they often have. Eventually, when his tears fade, he's left in a fog of misery, the alcohol making the world around him tip on its axis. His vision is hazy and his mind filled with cotton, but he lays in the grass atop her grave and tries to remember when he was happy, when he first saw her, when all of this was just a distant consequence he'd never truly considered.

"I found you in the kitchen," he says, smiling drunkenly. "For the life of me, I can't remember _why_ I had visited. To bother the cooks, most likely. I often grew weary of lessons and would seek out something more entertaining. You didn't like me… Not one bit." He laughs. "If I remember correctly, you picked up— It was a carrot you were peeling for supper, and you winged it at my head… It hit center on my forehead, left a welt the size of a silver dollar… I was offended, of course, and _confused_ by such a terrible reaction, but… mesmerized too. You were strange and new and like no one I'd ever met before… No one I'll ever meet again."

He takes another pull from his bourbon. "I think I was smitten even then, while the bruise was blooming. I knew I would change your mind about me. I was certain of it. And I did, didn't I? I gave chase for so many years, begging for the briefest hint of attention or affection, doing all I could to gain a smile or a laugh. You were all I wanted, all I could see, and every rejection gnawed at my pride. I tried to pretend it didn't, that I wasn't hurt, but you know how terrible I am. How quick I am to think the worst of others, or assume they think the worst of me…"

He grimaces. "I regret the time after mother's death, when I buried my pain in women and booze. Truth be told, I wanted to go to you. I wanted to grieve where you could help me. But I was in no shape for that. I was… _bereft_ and unkind and… I didn't want you to see me like that. I didn't want my shameful behaviour to color your opinion of me. Of course, you always knew, you knew me better than nearly everyone, except perhaps Stefan."

He shakes his head, feeling woozy with the jarring sensation. "I convinced myself… I was so sure of it… If I could just _have_ you, then I would have all I need. It was so simple to me. But you were always smarter, you always saw what I didn't, and you tried to warn me, you tried to tell me that in loving you, I was destroying you. It was never what I wanted. It was never… I only wanted to love you, to have you as my own, to… To make you my _wife_." His voice catches and his throat burns, and he closes his eyes burn once more.

"It's my fault, Bonnie. It's my doing that caused your death. My father may have ordered the noose around your neck, but I might as well have tied it myself." He presses a hand to his chest as his heart lurches painfully. "I won't— I _can't_ forgive myself for that. I _shouldn't_." He turns himself over that, and cries himself to sleep in the grass.

Stefan finds him some hours later, hauls him from the ground and half-carries him back to the house. "It's my fault, s'all my fault," he mumbles drunkenly against Stefan's shoulder.

His brother doesn't correct him, he simply puts him to bed and sighs over his state before he takes his leave.

Damon falls asleep shortly after, and dreams that it's him that stands on the hill, his throat the noose tightens around, and when he wakes with a startled gasp, he thinks it's fitting. As it should have been him all along.

* * *

He doesn't love Katherine, not by a mile, but she doesn't love him either. She says it, tells him she loves him and wants him and needs him. And it feels nice. Especially when he closes his eyes, imagines her voice is a little huskier, that her face is darker and her eyes are greener. He misses Bonnie like breathing. There are days when he thinks he sees her, thinks he hears her voice or her laugh, but they're fleeting, and only serve to drive the grief home further.

He tries to be the man he was when his mother passed, a scoundrel, never searching for love, just a bed to warm, and he'd found plenty. His heart had long been won, by a woman who kept him in his place, rejected his affections, time and again, until one day she didn't. One day she laughed as he danced her around the empty kitchen. One day she leaned up and met his lips, took a kiss for herself that he returned happily. What followed was weeks, months, of flirtation and courting, all carefully done in the empty rooms of his house or the stalls of the barn, away from curious or judgmental eyes. There was nobody else then. No other bed to warm. Just the hope that she might one day join him in his.

The body next to him feels cold and he casts a vague look in a sleeping Katherine's direction. He wonders if it's part of her vampirism, that she loses natural body heat over time. It didn't take him terribly long to deduce that she was, in fact, _otherworldly_. He may be drunk more often than not, but he isn't stupid. His father would kill her on sight, but Damon thinks he's done more than enough of that already. So instead, he kept her secret, and in doing so, unwittingly earned her trust and a place in her bed.

Katherine isn't much for cuddling. Not with him at least. He's not unaware of how she shares his brother's bed too. He cares little about it. It's not her heart he wants. It's the distraction. Flirting with Katherine, losing himself in her for a few hours, lets him forget what he's really lost, who he really wants.

He turns over, away from Katherine, and wonders if Bonnie hates him. If she regretted him when the rope tightened around her neck. He buries his face in his pillow, lets it collect the tears that fall, the grief that steals through him. And he wonders if it'll ever lessen. If he'll ever forgive himself. If _she_ could. He doubts it.

* * *

Emily Bennett doesn't like him, and he can't blame her. While a distant cousin, Bonnie was still family, and she blames him for Bonnie's death. So does he. At least they have that in common.

"Miss Katherine wouldn't like you poking your nose around in her business," Emily warns him.

"It's not _her_ business I'm interested in," he tells her, watching her expression curiously. "You're a witch, aren't you? That is, you have supernatural abilities or powers."

Her mouth tightens. "Did Miss Katherine—"

"Forget Katherine," he bites out. "This isn't about her."

Emily's head tips and then a knowing look crosses her face. "Bonnie then."

His throat tightens. "Is there a way—?"

"No," she interrupts him.

His eyes narrow into a glare. "You have no idea what I wanted to ask."

"Resurrection is not an option. The kind of power it takes... The balance won't allow it. And even if it did, it would likely cost me my life." She arches an eyebrow. "And while I know _you_ would willingly sacrifice me to save her, I am not so willing."

Frustration swamps him. "There has to be _something_. All of your powers and you can't do anything?"

"I wouldn't _have_ to if it weren't for you," she returns bitingly.

He flinches and looks away. "Anything I say to that would only be an excuse."

"Yes. It would."

Silence abounds for a long moment, before, eventually, she sighs. "I cannot resurrect her, Damon. While it's been attempted, it would require the power of a _hundred_ witches. And if I'm not able to channel it, it would _kill_ me. Besides, magic requires balance, and when you go against the natural pattern of life, it has consequences."

He wants to argue, to shout, _damn the consequences_ , but not paying attention to them in the past is what got him into this situation in the first place. Bonnie had warned him, told him that what they were doing wasn't acceptable, that there were people who wouldn't allow it, and he hadn't listened. He'd been so sure, so naive, in thinking that they were different, they could defeat the odds.

"So there's nothing..." His throat tightens and his shoulders fall limp with defeat. "I've lost her."

Emily peers at him thoughtfully a long moment, and then, very slowly, she raises her chin. "There is _something_... but it's not going to be easy and it won't be anything like you expect."

His hope soars despite her warning. "What is it?"

"Rebirth," she says, a curious look in her eyes. "What do you know about reincarnation?"

Very little, he supposes, but he's about to learn a great deal.

* * *

He doesn't expect Stefan to demand his help in freeing Katherine. Truth be told, he wouldn't much care if she was lost in the ensuing fight. But his brother is desperate, and he can't say he doesn't understand it. If it were Bonnie in the same position, he would do all he could too. But there are things happening, machinations underway, that he needs to put his focus on. He has to meet Emily, has to set in motion a life he never planned to live, one hundred and fifty-four years' worth of misery and guilt are ahead. There is a rope waiting for him in the woods; it seems only fair to die as she did. Only he will return to the world much sooner than she will, the vials of vampire blood that Emily gave to him that day were promise of that.

Stefan will not stop pulling and begging him though, and he gives in as a final gift to his brother before he flees the limits of Mystic Falls and becomes the monster their father hated. He wonders if Bonnie's powers will manifest in her next life, if her being a witch will encumber her love for him now that he'll be a vampire. It's a fleeting thought. Naive he may be, but he's sure they can get past it, past anything that gets in their way.

He would be lying if he said it was easy. Stefan lures the men away from the carriage as he circles around to knock out a guard and opens the doors. He spots Katherine easily, her fine dress giving her away, and soon Stefan is there to help him drag her weakened body free.

Damon can feel time sifting through his fingers, wonders if he's helped enough and now Stefan can carry his beloved vampiress to safety while Damon searches out Emily in the woods. Before he can ask Stefan what more he needs from him, there's a gunshot, and the pain hits him square in the back. He falls, colliding hard with the ground, and, for a moment, he thinks it doesn't hurt nearly as much as he thought, as he felt he deserved. Stefan is leaning over him, his name a distant noise in his ears. As his eyes grow dark, he only hopes that Emily will go through with her end of the promise.

* * *

When Damon wakes, Emily is sitting beside him on a wooden bench, her hands folded calmly in her lap. He blinks up at her, sucks in a sudden breath of air, and sits up so quickly that his vision swims. "It worked."

"You had doubts?" She seems amused. "And yet you went through with it."

"For Bonnie," he murmurs, and then looks up at her. "The spell? You cast it?"

She searches his eyes a long moment. "You remember our deal?"

"I promise you, I will protect your lineage for as long as I'm alive."

She nods. "Bonnie will be reborn. But remember... You cannot see her until the night of the comet. That is the _only_ way this spell works. Think of it like Orpheus and Eurydice. Your love is following you out of Hades, but if you look back to make sure, you forfeit her life and have lost her for good. You _must_ trust in the spell, Damon."

"I understand."

"And let me be clear, whether she chooses to take her chances on you in her next life, I cannot guarantee. I can only give you an opportunity."

He nods, having no reply to that, and turns his gaze toward Stefan. "Is he...?"

"He's like you. He'll wake soon enough." She holds out a satchel then. "You're in transition. You need to drink this to complete it."

He takes it from her outstretched hand and unscrews the cap. The overwhelming scent of blood hits him and hunger makes his stomach clench with painful desperation. He licks his lips, but turns his attention to her once more. "I cannot repay you enough."

"Keep your promise, Damon Salvatore, my family depends on it."

"Bonnie was a Bennett. Even if you weren't... I would still do what I could to protect them."

"If you want her to be reborn, you'll have to. Without any Bennetts alive to bring her into this world, my spell is void." She raises an eyebrow meaningfully before she stands. It's a long time to wait for one woman... One hundred and forty-five years..."

Damon nods, and then tips the satchel of blood up to pour into his mouth. He licks the stain from his elongated teeth and replies, "She's worth it."

[ **tbc** ]

* * *

 **author's note** : _on the bright side, with the show back on, my muse is very inspired. the next chapter of " **'til eternity** " is very close to being finished, and yes, I have chapters in the works for my other stories. they're on their way. this particular new story was meant to be a oneshot, but then i had too much fun (21k and counting) fleshing out damon's journey as he becomes a start player in the lives of the bennetts and how it changes him and many of his choices along the way! plus, it technically ended in a bit of a cliffhanger with him and 2009!Bonnie, but since i'm fleshing it out, that won't be an option anymore. resolution will be found. :) _

_be sure to let me know how you like it. reviews are sustenance!_

 **\- Lee | Fina**


	2. family

**warning(s)** : period-typical racism (discussion of lynching) ; sexual content ; violence  
 **word count** : 6,418  
 **summary** : Damon's never been one to consider the consequences, so when his cowardice causes the demise of his first love, he'll do anything to make it right. Including making a deal with a witch. [reincarnation fic]

* * *

 **II.**

 ** _1865_**

Stefan's not who he once was. Damon's not certain he is either, but he does have more control than his brother, and for that he's thankful. Stefan needs help though, and Damon isn't sure he can be what he needs. He visits when he can, but Stefan's bloodlust is unquenchable and Damon has a vow to Emily to keep. Her children are living on the very outskirts of Mystic Falls, hidden from the council, protected by Damon, but danger grows closer and he knows that it is finally time for them, and him, to take their leave. It would be unwise to bring his brother with them, to put the children in his destructive path, so he makes a decision.

"Going somewhere?"

Damon pauses near the door, his suitcase in hand. "You must be the vampire I hear my brother complaining about."

Alexia, as he's heard Stefan refer to her as, is beautiful, with blonde curls that drape down her back and a friendly smile. She takes up a fold of her dress and curtsies, smiling in amusement. "That would be me." Before he can continue on his way, she adds, "And _you_ must be the brother that avoids him... He thinks you hate him, you know."

He glances at her, brow furrowed.

"Do you?"

His stomach sinks, and after a little fumbling, he puts his suitcase down. It's a nervous gesture when he smooths a hand down his jacket, but he can't help it. "I never wanted this life for him..."

"But you wanted it for yourself?"

"It's... complicated. There are things Stefan doesn't know. Choices that were made."

"Maybe knowing them will help him understand your reticence to be around him."

"My _reticence_ is because of his lack of control." He shifts his chin up. "This was our home, once. Now it's little more than a graveyard."

"You're vampires, you had to know there would be casualties."

"Of course. Just... not this many. Not this _often_." Katherine hadn't left so much carnage in her wake. She'd been careful. Stefan is reckless. "I love my brother, but I have priorities, things I must do, people I must take care of."

"The witches."

He winces, eyes narrowed. "How did you...?"

"Stefan's not the only one I've kept my eye on... You sneak out to see them, bring them food, keep them safe. But you're right, Mystic Falls isn't safe for them. I'm not sure anywhere around here is, not with the war."

"I made a promise to keep them safe, I plan to honor it." His gaze wanders from her. "It's too dangerous for them here while he's..."

"Your brother needs help." She stares at him searchingly. "He needs you."

"Perhaps. But for now, he will have _you_." He meets her gaze then and holds it. "Help him. He deserves it."

Alexia nods, and says sincerely, "I'll help him."

Damon reaches for his suitcase once more and then turns to the door.

"But one day, Damon, I won't be here, and it will be your turn."

He has nothing to say to that, and so he doesn't reply, he simply leaves. Each step down the stairs feels like a nail in a coffin, but he doesn't let it slow him. Emily's children are waiting and he plans on taking them somewhere better, safer, where the misery and death of Mystic Falls will no longer haunt them. He takes one look back as he goes, and he hopes his brother will forgive him.

* * *

 ** _1869_**

Damon buys a parcel of land in Salem, Indiana. It's still smarting from the war when they arrive, but it's small and focused more on rebuilding than it is on outsiders coming in. Still, he makes sure the land he buys is on the outskirts, the forest edging in around them from most sides, but there's enough ground for a house and a small farm. He and Arnett, Emily's brother, build the house together. Damon doesn't plan on staying with them, but a cover must be provided and the family will need money when he's not there. Arnett has experience growing corn, so Damon provides whatever he can, using his new powers of persuasion and what money is left from his father's safe to set the family up with whatever possible. Should anyone in town ask, the farm is Damon's, but he's a busy entrepreneur that travels a lot, so he has Arnett work for him, earning shelter and food for himself and the children.

Emily had five children, two boys and three girls, the youngest was only a year old when Emily died. Carlisle is her eldest son, and it's clear he remembers every terrible detail of the last few years; his eyes are far too haunted for a boy his age. Joe is her second, he doesn't care much for the quiet, always trying to make noise and get the other kids to play. Birdie Mae, her eldest daughter, takes care of Bellamy, the middle daughter, and Gemma, the youngest. They're subdued in the beginning, even Joe for the first few weeks. But the walls of the house get raised and a roof is put over their heads, and no longer are they cramped in the confines of the carriage. This is their new home, and they can make of it what they wish.

Damon comes and goes for a time after that, leaving Arnett to raise the children as he sees fit. But no matter what he does in the great, wide world, completely at his mercy now, he always wanders back to that piece of land.

"The crops look good this year," he notes, taking a seat on a porch chair.

Arnett looks over at him, and nods. "Yes, sir, they do."

"How are the children?"

"Birdie Mae's got 'em under hand. Carlisle and Joe help me in the fields and the girls are growin' up quick. Got my hands full, but I expect Emily knew that when she left 'em to me."

"You haven't had any trouble with the townspeople?"

He snorts. "Man of my color always has trouble, but we survive. Always have, always will."

Damon nods, sitting back in his seat. "If you need anything…"

"You done plenty. We take of ourselves just fine." He nods his chin forward. "Expect they'd like to see you though. Always askin' when you comin' back."

"Ah, well, that's likely because I bring trinkets from my travels." His mouth ticks up. "My mother would call it buying their interest."

Arnett grunts, before sitting forward. "Hungry then? Just about supper time."

"If I'm not imposing…"

"Wouldn't ask if you was."

Damon nods. "I'd be happy to join then."

It's a strange sense of comfort he finds when he returns, welcomed into a home he helped build, surrounded by familiar faces that are aging all too quickly. The children rush around him when he enters the house. Carlisle keeps his distance, he's never been one for fussing, but Joe is happy to pull at Damon's coattails and see if he brought anything for him too. He has, but he wonders if they might view him as he once viewed his father. Giuseppe took long trips when Damon was a child, he missed important dates like birthdays and the like, but would excuse it with a few pricey gifts here or there. A pocket watch, a leather bound journal, etcetera. Damon liked the gifts, of course, but as a young man, he'd wanted his father more than anything. Later, he would realize the trips were a blessing, any time spent away from Giuseppe was a reprieve.

Emily's children are happy to accept his gifts and learn of his travels, but as he joins them at the dinner table, he wonders if perhaps he should do more, be there more, and he vows to try.

* * *

He soon learns that there are different ways for witches to be, different ways for their powers to manifest. While Carlisle is good with herbs and Joe is a quick study at spells, the girls seem more apt and in tune with their abilities. Birdie Mae and Bellamy find a deep connection with the earth while Gemma, he's noticed, is more fact based.

Bellamy collects plants, sets the pots on the window sill in her bedroom, and tends to them each day. Sometimes Damon hears her talking to them, conversing as though they understand her. The leaves, once brown and wilted, slowly grow greener, flowers bloom in her presence, and even the cornfields seem healthier when she walks through them. She's a lover of all things nature, happy to stroll through the forests and offer what she can back to the world around her. She's six years old and Damon thinks she's more at peace than he's ever been.

Birdie Mae tells him one day that all things have a soul. The dirt, the trees, the acorns, and seeds. They pulse with life, with growth and vitality. She feels them, communes with them, and gives thanks for what they give to her and those she loves. Birdie Mae's heart is huge, he sees it with her siblings, her uncle, and with any stray she comes across, human or animal alike. She doesn't have a cruel bone in her body, no matter how impatient she can sometimes be. There's no arguing with Birdie Mae, there's only doing as she says, but it's never malicious, it's simply her way.

Gemma is rarely seen without the Bennett grimoire. She's only eight and Damon's fairly sure she has it memorized. She adds spells of her own too; he sees her testing them out, sometimes to unfortunate results. But she never lets it stop her, no matter how many times she singes her hair or breaks something, she's determined to add to the Bennett legacy. She asks him to write for her sometimes, to make sure the spelling is correct and easy for future Bennetts to read. He sits with her at the kitchen table as she tells him how the spell is said and what it's meant to do. She's a bright little thing, and eager to share with anybody who will listen. Gemma's a darling; his mother would have doted on her without end. Much like her brother Joe, she's keen to meet new people and befriend them. She has a soft heart, one she opens to Damon as easily as she does her family. He takes comfort in that.

* * *

Damon's never heard someone make so much noise as Joe does. It doesn't matter what he's doing, he needs to do it loudly. Even when he's simply having a conversation, slowly his pitch will raise, like he's just waiting for someone or something to interrupt and he's desperate not to be talked over. Damon wonders sometimes if it's just his way of making a mark on the world, to make sure he's never overlooked. He supposes he can relate to that, which is why he tries not to let the noise bother him too much. It doesn't always work and he occasionally has to take a break, but he tries all the same.

Where Joe is loud, however, Carlisle is quiet. It takes time and effort to coax any kind of reaction out of Carlisle. He's the strong, silent type. But when he does smile, it transforms his face, his whole demeanor. Damon can count on three fingers how many times he's seen a genuine smile or laugh from the boy, and each time it was earned by one of his siblings.

Joe tries more than the others; he looks up to Carlisle like Stefan once did to Damon. Pulling at the sleeves of his shirt, asking him to watch as he does something particularly difficult or interesting. Carlisle speaks as if he has a daily limit on his words, picking and choosing when he feels he needs to add to a conversation. Damon's fairly sure Joe's picked up any spare words around and is happy to fill any silence with mindless chatter. It's a strange comfort sometimes, when the world seems too quiet.

Damon tries to imagine what they might be like when they grow older, just the two of them, Joe holding up the majority of the conversation while Carlisle nods from time to time. Two old men, sitting on a porch, wasting away the days with the kind of comfort only brothers can find in one another. He wonders where Stefan is, if he's okay, if he misses him. And then he finds himself buying a football, bringing it back to the farm to show the boys how to play. Joe is eager and Carlisle is curious; it turns into a family event and they split into two teams. It's the fourth time he sees Carlisle smile, and it's because Joe has scored a touchdown and is dancing ridiculously in the distance. Even for those who enjoy the quiet, there is peace found in the noise of family.

* * *

Damon finds himself eager to return from his trips. Sometimes, despite being able to see as much or as little of the world as he pleases, he wants nothing more than to return to a _home_ , and the Bennetts are as close as he'll ever get to that again.

Bellamy greets him with a flower after a particularly long time away. The color is more vibrant than any he's seen before. He lifts her up when she tips forward on the front of her feet in askance, and he holds her against his hip.

She offers a quiet smile as she tucks the flower into the pocket of his vest. "To keep you safe."

He's not sure how a flower will do that, or why, but he accepts it all the same. "A fine gift," he tells her.

Her smile brightens then and she wiggles to be let down before she runs off to join her siblings.

Later, he learns that, while beautiful, the flower is poisonous to most, and he thinks even Bellamy knows the world is not as kind as it should be.

Birdie Mae does not offer flowers; she's a fusser by nature. Her way of showing she's happy he's come back is to make him food and offer to sew any holes in his clothes. She cuts his hair when she deems it too long and tells him its time he go in for a shave. She's still young, barely twelve, but she's a mother hen, and he accepts the affection as it's freely offered. To her, he is family, and so he's treated as her uncle is. It's a high honor, and he doesn't look down upon it.

Of them all, Gemma is always the most excited when he visits. She drags him off to the kitchen and makes him sit and listen as she tells every detail of what's happened during his time away. Some of it is terribly boring, but her enthusiasm urges him not to tell her so. Instead, he finds himself hoping that nothing ever happens to ruin the genuine _goodness_ that makes her who she is.

* * *

 ** _1971_**

Damon visits Bonnie's grave on the anniversary of her death; he thinks his father was being especially cruel in choosing his birthday. Careful to avoid the town, he often worries he may be recognized, but has been lucky so far in avoiding any passersby. The cemetery is especially empty, but it may just be the early hour.

He struggles with what he wants to tell her. He'll sit on the grass, pluck the weeds from the ground so her plot is immaculate, and let the silence surround him for a while. Eventually, he will tell her of his travels, of the places he's seen, the food he's tasted, of where he wants to take her when she returns. He tells her of Emily's children and Arnett, of how well they're doing and how big they've grown. He shares his life with her, distinctly aware that she has no life to share in return. Eventually, the melancholy moods gets to him, so he stands, dusts himself off, and vows to visit her again soon.

While he knows Stefan has long moved on from the plantation house, he finds himself visiting it anyway, searching for ghosts that have left long ago. He climbs the stairs, listening for the familiar creak. He visits the bedrooms that have grown stale and thick with dust. He stops in the study and stares at the place they'd last stood together, her back to the wall and his hand quick to become familiar with her warm skin. He remembers how she felt, the embrace of her supple lips, and the smooth touch of her fingers on his chest and through his hair. He closes his eyes and lets the memory come to him, lets it form around him and in his mind so clearly, that he's there again. He's standing there, willing her to love him, to run away with him, to have the life he wants them to have. She's beautiful, ethereal, and all too lost.

He can hear the skittering feet of mice in the kitchen below, the hollows and creaks of an old house that has seen better days. Sheets cover much of the furniture, the bodies that once lay rotting after Stefan's binges are long buried, but there is still a lingering odor that reeks of death and decay. Perhaps it's not of the people that died there, he thinks, but of those that lived there. It's a dismal though and he remembers why he was so keen to leave. But he lingers still; penance for the past, he supposes. There will never be enough of that.

* * *

 ** _1872_**

Bellamy gets sick first, and then Joe follows. Damon has a doctor brought straight to the farm to tend to them in their beds. He compels him to do everything he can, to make them right again, but the doctor is adamant that there is nothing. There is a moment, a very terrible moment, where Damon nearly shears the man's head from his shoulders. But he controls himself, wills his rage to calm, and sends the man away, shaking with terror but compelled not to tell another living soul of the demon he saw in Damon's eyes.

Damon lingers in the door to the room. Bellamy and Joe share Arnett's bed to keep them from infecting the others. Birdie Mae keeps to the kitchen, distracts Gemma and Carlisle, but her hands shake and there's a quiver to her voice. She tilts her chin when Damon looks at her, like she's trying to tell him that she's strong and capable and doesn't need his pity.

"Ain't nothin' they can do is there?" Arnett asks gruffly, arms crossed over his chest as he stands against the wall, peering down at the two children.

Joe's nearly a man now, his feet nearly hang off the end of the bed, but he looks small and weak, shaking and sweating under the heavy blankets that cover him. His eyes are glassy and distant, and Bellamy is the same, just smaller and more willing to cry about how much it hurts, how tired she is, how she wants her mama.

"No." Damon swallows tightly. "I could… My blood would…"

Arnett shakes his head. "Vampire blood can't fix everything. They'd still die, they'd just come back like you."

Damon wants to ask, _is that so terrible?_ But he already knows the answer. Witches don't become vampires. It's not in their nature. The fact that they allow him near at all is a testament to trust that wouldn't be offered to just anyone. But to change them, to strip away their powers and abilities and replace it with immortality is not what most witches would allow. And the Bennetts are all too stubborn in that manner. But Bellamy… She's only nine years old; she's small and fragile and so very young.

"The doctor left behind morphine for the pain," he says quietly. "At least then they will go peacefully."

Arnett nods, a quick jerk of his head, but Damon can smell the salt of his tears, hear the hitch in his heartbeat, and see the shake of his hands. Arnett has been there all their lives, seen every bump and bruise, celebrated every birthday, and now he would have to bury them, long before they deserved.

Damon stays, refuses to turn his back when the worst comes, even though it curdles his stomach and pains his heart. He sits with Birdie Mae in the low lamp light. She's already put Gemma to bed but refuses to let herself rest; she knows what's coming. "You can't fix 'em?" she asks eventually.

"I want to," he tells her, fiddling with his ring. "If there was anything I could do…"

"Carlisle says it ain't right, that we're not supposed to become like you, that a witch is a witch and it'd be wrong to turn…" She grinds her teeth, brow furrowed. "I don't understand it. Seems so simple. Some blood, just a little bit, and Bellamy doesn't have to die. Joe-Joe can keep on going."

"She'd never age. Bellamy. She'd be nine for the rest of her days."

"Better to be nine than dead," she spits angrily.

"Perhaps. It's not my choice to make."

"Did you choose?" she wonders, eyeing him curiously. "You wanted to turn?"

"I did." He nods faintly. "There was a time when I wished for nothing more than death. That it would steal me away in the night. I wore my regret and pain like a flag across my chest. But I… I was lucky. I was given another chance for something, to right a wrong I made." He swallows thickly and turns to her. "I would not wish my existence on another, Birdie Mae. The thirst, the death, the loneliness that crawls inside your soul. It is not so simple as a bit of blood. It is an eternity of misery. Even if I turned her, eventually, she would be faced with a crossroads of her own. What happens when the rest of you age or fall ill? Does she turn you too or let you be? Does she watch you die and live with the consequences or does she force you to join her in her state? There are too many variables." He shakes his head. "She is a child, and she deserves better. Better than dying like this or living like me."

Birdie Mae's lips quiver as tears spill down her cheeks. "It ain't right. She's just a little girl. It ain't right!"

Damon reaches for her hand, pats it gently, but finds he is ill equipped to console anybody. That doesn't stop Birdie Mae from throwing herself at him though, burying her face against his chest and crying her broken heart out. So he rubs her shoulder and her hair, like his mother did when he was a boy, and he thinks of the songs she used to sing to help Stefan sleep when he was especially fussy. Damon is not a good singer, he's been told by many, but he sings anyway. He hums the tune to get the rhythm and then he sings for Birdie Mae as he rocks her gently. And eventually, he can hear her sniffles calm, her heartbeat slow, and she falls into a peaceful sleep. He waits a few minutes more before he picks her up and carries her to the room she shares with Gemma. He tucks her under the blanket beside her sister and hopes that, in time, she won't blame him for the decisions he's made.

He walks to Arnett's room then, takes a seat in a chair beside the bed. He listens to the terrible rattle in each of their lungs, to the struggling rasp for breath that burns up their throats, and the struggling heartbeats that lay in their chest. They are peaceful though, the morphine doing what it can. Damon doesn't leave their side. He holds each of their hands for a time. Bellamy's is small and delicate, finely boned with chipped nails and a faint scar on her thumb. Joe's is rough, large, and littered with marks and calluses. But his face is still so young, and for once, Damon misses all the noise he used to make.

"Emily will watch them now," Arnett says near dawn, and Damon nods, though it strikes his heart like ice.

The sun is rising when Bellamy goes; her tiny heart unable to take it any longer. It's not long later that Joe follows, simply drifting away in his sleep. And Damon realizes there is more misery to be found in keeping close to the Bennetts than he first expected, as there are some thing in life that even he cannot save them from.

* * *

 ** _1880_**

He finds comfort in blood. Pities the victims that fall under his teeth, but relishes in the brief moment of consuming _fullness_ that comes when he feeds. There are so many that they become a blur behind his eyes. He makes his way north, no particular destination in mind. He just moves, from town to town, city to city, slaking his grief on the misery of others. It's selfish and cruel and monstrous, but for a time, he feels like if he should have to mourn, so should the rest of the world.

He's sitting in a hotel, a woman in his lap and blood drenching the front of his shirt, dripping down his chin and neck. It's not enough. It's never enough. And for the first time since he turned, he thinks he understands the terrible obsession that Stefan had with feeding. Damon always thought he had more control. And he imagines, even now, in comparison to how rabid his brother was, he does. But there are still too many bodies in his wake, too many lives lost because he can't rid his ears of the sound of Bellamy's laughter, can't close his eyes without thinking of Joe's cheerful smile. To compound it even more, he thinks of Bonnie, of how ashamed she would be of him, that he ran away when the family needed him most, that he'd destroyed so many people in the pursuit of his own comfort.

The woman in his lap is nearly dead, the last of her blood flows from her neck like a fountain. It's sticky and thick and coats his hands and his clothes. Gone is the refined southern gentleman he once appeared to be and in his place is a pitiful man that hides behind a monster with his face.

There's no saving his latest victim, she's too far gone for that, but she is his last, he decides. It's time to make his way back, to right his wrongs, to return to his duty. If they'll have him, that is. He hopes so. They're all he really has left these days.

* * *

 ** _1881_**

"You been gone a while."

Damon grimaces as he takes a seat beside Arnett. He's looking tired, much older than the last time Damon saw him. "I've been told I don't handle grief well." He snorts at that. "When my mother died, I spent all my time gambling, buried my sorrows in women and booze. It seemed a good distraction at the time."

"Hmph. And this time?"

He shakes his head. "I ran. As far away as I could get. Tried to convince myself that you were better off without me. I find death and misery tend to follow me like a shadow."

"Death follows us all. Emily wasn't the first sister I had to bury. Joe and Bellamy ain't the first kid I had to lose neither. Had a wife of my own once, a daughter too, for a few minutes, at least." He grinds his teeth a little. "Life ain't easy for nobody. You can't run from it all the time. Bound to catch up eventually. Got to learn how to survive is all."

Damon turns to him. "I'm sorry, about your family."

Arnett nods. "Sorry 'bout your mama, and Miss Bonnie too."

Silence fills the space between them for a time, but eventually Damon asks, "Are they here?"

"Birdie Mae's married, had a baby boy last spring with her husband. Lives closer to town now." He tips his head to the side. "Gemma's inside and Carlisle's in the field. Should start with Gemma; she's the least upset. Kind heart, that one. Birdie Mae might kick up some fuss. She wasn't too happy you stayed away so long."

He frowns at that. "I will make it up to her."

"Expect you would." He pushes up from the chair and starts toward the field. "You stickin' around?"

"For a while, yes."

"All right then."

Damon watches him amble off toward the rows of corn and finds himself wishing he'd learn to be as steady as Arnett's always been. With a sigh, he turns to make his way inside and see about making his apologies to Miss Gemma. She's much softer than the others, always eager to forgive and forget. Emotional, too. Quick to cry and eager to accept a hug or a word of praise. She and Birdie Mae are polar opposites, but equally good people.

He finds her in the kitchen, pouring over a recipe with her brow cinched.

"Is that one of Birdie Mae's? Her writing leaves something to be desired."

Gemma's eyes raise quickly. "Mister Damon!" she cries, grinning brightly. "When'd you get on this way?"

"Just today." He nods, removing his hat as he steps further into the kitchen. "I owe you an apology for being away so long."

"Never mind that." She waves a dismissive hand. "Where'd you get on to this time?" She turns, grabs up a basket of biscuits and puts them on the table. "Go on then, eat your fill and tell me where you went."

Damon half-smiles, taking a seat at the table with her. She's always so curious about the rest of the world and, not for the first time, he wonders about how easily it would be to take her out to see it. He could compel the judgmental eyes away, at least some of them, and give her an adventure to remember, at least. Perhaps one day he'll show her all the sights her heart desires.

* * *

 ** _1884_**

The day Damon realizes werewolves are all too real is the same days he finds himself surrounded by an entire pack of them.

Birdie Mae had warned him to be careful, that he shouldn't antagonize them, but as soon as they circled around him, he could feel something inside him. An ingrained sense of violent dislike for their very beings. He breathes through his mouth when the scent of them seems to pitch his blood thirst higher. The first one he'd stumbled upon was barely a boy, but he'd snarled at Damon before taking off into the woods and returning with more.

"You must be lost, blood sucker," a man sneers at him, his eyes an eerie yellow and his brow becoming more pronounced.

"Not lost so far as I can tell." Damon turns slowly, eyeing the men around him, their shoulders up much like a dog's hackles would, their teeth bared and their breathing quite similar to panting. Were it not such a dire situation, he might have poked fun at their canine likeness. As it was, he had a matter to settle. "I haven't come to fight."

The man laughs, a gruff noise. "You wouldn't win if you were."

Damon hums, tucking his arms behind his back as he tips his head thoughtfully. He can hear their heartbeats skittering; the anticipation to tear him to pieces is thick on the air. He should be scared, he can even admit that a small part of him is, but a much larger part is angry, so he chooses to focus on that.

"Your… _pack_ , is that what you call yourselves?" He doesn't wait for a reply. "You're too close to town and your wandering is causing… _issues_ for a few friends of mine."

His lip curls. "Can't say we're worried much about putting a few vampires out of a home. These woods were ours first."

"Then you should become better house-trained." Damon's eyes narrowed at him. "And it's not vampires you're bothering, it's _witches_."

He pauses then, his brow furrowing. "There ain't no witches around here."

"I have it on good authority that you're wrong." He raises his chin and looks down his nose at him. "There are children that play in these woods. And, according to my friend, one of your pack mates ate her _cow_. Now, I won't ask that you replace it, though you _should_ , we'll just call it a late _forest_ -warming gift." He takes a step forward then, and raises a brow down at the man. "But make no mistake, the witches that live here are under my protection. I'm not keen on getting fleas, but if any of your people harm one hair on their heads…" The violence inside him bubbles up until he can feel his eyes bleed black and the veins around them ripple. "I will personally remove their organs and force you to eat them before I make you into a _rug_." He grins then, fangs at the ready. "Have I made myself clear?"

The leader of the pack stares back at him, something dark flickering in his gaze. "You walk on my land and threaten _me?_ "

"So long as Bennett children walk in these woods, I consider it _their_ land, and since I'm very possessive, I think we'll keep it."

He pauses then. "Bennett," he repeats, and Damon swears the man's ears pull tight to his head at the name.

"That's right. _Bennett_. You've heard of them?"

He watches a myriad of thoughts pass the man's face; slowly, his forehead smooths out and his eyes turn a pale green color. More man than wolf now.

"You _have_. Good. Then this matter can be settled amicably."

The man grinds his teeth, his shoulders still hunched. "These woods are ours… If a cow was eaten, it was by one of our young. They're still learning."

Damon frowns. "A cow can be replaced. The children _can't_. I don't make idle threats. And I wouldn't have come here if I didn't think the situation warranted it. Control your pack or I will control them for you. And trust in this, you will not like my methods." With that, he turns on his heel, and starts to walk away.

He's only a few feet before the man calls after him, "And what name does the vampire who protects the Bennetts go by then?"

He turns back toward them, not unaware of the posturing that is happening, the feigned ease despite a very real tension in the air.

He gives a little bow as he smirks. "Damon Salvatore."

The man nods, raising his chin. "Remy," he replies. "Remy Laughlin."

He hums, more amused than anything. "Glad we could reach an accord, Mister Laughlin."

Remy nods, crossing his arms in front of him, hand wrapping tightly around his opposite wrist. "In future, when there's an issue, you speak to me, and _only_ me."

A muscle ticks in his cheek, but Damon smiles. "Let's hope there's no future issues. I'm what you might call… _impatient_. And I've been told I can be rather reckless." His smile drops then and he stares at Remy coldly. "Stay away from my witches, this is your one and only warning." He's gone in a rush of wind before Remy or the others can reply.

It's mere seconds before he finds himself on Birdie Mae's porch. She's rocking back and forth, knitting needles in hand, and doesn't so much as flinch at his sudden appearance. "You took care of it?"

"They'll keep their distance."

"Mmm. And if they don't?"

He bares his teeth as he turns sharp eyes in the direction of the forest line. "Then you'll have to find a recipe for roast _wolf_."

Birdie Mae snorts a laugh and shakes her head at him. "A wolf's bite is poison to a vampire. You'd be dead in days."

"Then I won't get bitten," he says rather haughtily.

Her laugh is warm and her eyes are bright as she looks up at him.

Clucking his tongue, he walks toward the chair adjacent to hers and takes a seat, leaning forward to rest a hand atop her round belly. "A boy?" he wonders. "I can only presume it will be named in my honor."

"Mm-mm. Gemma thinks this one here's a girl. And ain't none of my children gonna take a name like yours."

"It's perfectly respectable," he defends.

She raises an eyebrow at him, unconvinced, but he just smiles, sitting back in his seat. "What will you name her then?"

"We have a few names we're considering, but I'm favoring Sandrea."

"Sandrea," he repeats, rolling it around his tongue. He nods then, deciding he likes it, and drops his gaze to her stomach once more. "Hello Sandrea, I look forward to meeting you."

Birdie Mae hums, then nods her head toward the house. "Matthew's been waitin' on you. Got it in his head you're best friends."

Damon stands from his chair and smooths out his jacket. "We are," he says as he walks to the door. "I'm an affable person."

"So you keep sayin'."

He laughs as he makes his way inside, extending an ear for where the precocious four year old may be. When he hears Matthew's voice in the direction of his room, he searches out the football he'd given him on his last visit and makes his way toward him, happy to waste some time playing.

Despite learning that werewolves are a very real threat, he finds he's not overly worried. Remy seemed more concerned with the Bennett name and the idea that witches might be nearby. Perhaps that, more than Damon's warning, would be enough to keep the wolves at bay. Regardless, he stood by his word. If it came to it, he would kill anyone who dared to bring harm to the Bennetts. It was a stark truth, chilling in its sincerity, but he found he rather liked it. How absolute it was. He had a promise to keep and a family to protect; he would not flee or cower, not this time. Not ever again.

* * *

 **author's note** : _emily's children are fun to write, they each have their own personalities and ways of going about things, so i hope you're enjoying them. i'm updating now because i'm going to be doing practicum and school for the next few days and i'm not sure how tired i'll be. i have plenty of this still written, but finding the time and energy to edit it tends to wait for weekends._

 _there is a family tree posted on my tumblr, since there will be a lot of Bennett's coming into play and a lot of dates tossed around. i'm under **sarcasticfina** there, just add this to my url: **/tagged/fic-ref:-bennett-family-lineage**_

 _there's also a main page for this fic on my tumblr with face claims for all the main characters. it's under construction currently, but you can at least see what the characters look like._ _add to url: **/reincarnation**_

 _huge thanks to everyone who left reviews on the first chapter. i'm excited you're all eager to read this, as i've had a ton of fun writing up their histories and interactions with damon, and how each shapes him. please try to leave a review, i'd really appreciate it!_

 **\- lee | fina**


	3. lighthouse

**title:** one day soon (I'll hold you like the sun holds the moon)  
 **category** : the vampire diaries (tv)  
 **genre** : drama/romance  
 **ship** : bonnie/damon  
 **rating** : mature  
 **warning(s)** : period-typical racism (discussion of lynching) ; sexual content ; violence  
 **word count** : 7,108  
 **summary** : Damon's never been one to consider the consequences, so when his cowardice causes the demise of his first love, he'll do anything to make it right. Including making a deal with a witch. [reincarnation fic]

* * *

 **III.**

 _ **1887**_

The second time Damon meets a werewolf, it's on a full moon, and its foamy teeth are entirely too close to his jugular.

It's mostly Arnett that does the saving. He shouts, " _Modus!_ " and the wolf is thrown from atop Damon, forcing it to topple and roll across the grass.

Damon's up and on his feet seconds later, his teeth bared and his anger quick to flash. He's on the wolf, hands around its head, eager to tear it from its body, before Arnett intervenes.

"It's young," he calls to Damon from a distance. "Wager it's about Matthew's age…"

It shouldn't make him pause; if anything, it should make him act quicker. This wolf could have been at Birdie Mae's. It could've killed Matthew even easier than it tore the cow to pieces. But he can't help but think of little Matthew, of a mother like Birdie Mae waiting on her son to come home.

"It's rabid," he calls back to Arnett defensively, even as his brow furrows with indecision.

Carlisle comes toward him then, half-asleep and dressed for bed. He carries a jar with him. "Wolfsbane," he tells Damon, when he sees his inquisitive expression. "It'll weaken him enough that we can chain him 'til dawn."

Damon purses his lips, not so sure he likes the plan, but finds he's still unwilling to kill the wolf, at least until it gives him reason to.

He holds its head steady as Carlisle plies its sharp mouth open and pours the wolfsbane water down its throat. It thrashes in pain, whimpering, but it swallows, and Damon can feel as the strength it once held weakens to little more than a pup. For now, at least.

Arnett comes along then, his gait easy and unperturbed. Chains hang across his shoulders, rattling with each footstep.

"Ain't safe for you to be close to it," he warns Damon.

He doesn't heed him, however. "As long as he's close by, he's not leaving my sight." He understands the risk, to a degree, at least. Poisonous teeth and agonizing death should he be bitten. But Gemma is inside, hopefully still asleep, and as powerful as both Arnett and Carlisle are, Damon has a duty to see through. He won't let the wolf sink its teeth into any of them.

Arnett sighs, but doesn't argue, and soon enough the wolf is tied to a tree, bound tightly with magic and chains. Damon pulls a chair down from the porch so he can keep a better eye on it, and both men soon join him. It's a long and fitful night, one spent listening to the pup howl and whine, struggling in every way it can, but the magic won't give and the chains are sturdy.

Come morning, Arnett has fallen asleep in his chair, and Carlisle is barely keeping his eyes open.

The wolf's screams wake them, however, as he returns from wolf to boy and passes out in the grass.

"Trust you'll handle this then," Arnett says with a nod toward the boy before he stands, rubbing a hand down his sore back.

Damon doesn't reply, he simply makes his way to the boy, eyeing him warily, and then does what he needs to. Removing the chains, he plucks him up from the dewy grass, and finds he really is about the size of Matthew. Damon wraps him in his suit jacket when he shivers and carries him through the woods, following the wet dog scent that's collecting in one distinct area.

The heads that turn toward him are tired, but no less hostile than before.

He arches an eyebrow. "Would one of you be able to point me toward Remy?" he asks, smirking.

They snarl in reply, but a familiar man soon makes his way forward, his hair a mop of brown curls and more than a few healing cuts across his chest and shoulders.

"Mister Salvatore," Remy greets, his gaze falling to the bundle in Damon's arms.

He can hear Remy's heart thud, and for a moment, he feels a thread of pity. He unfolds the jacket from around the boy. "One of yours?"

The crowd takes a step forward, but Remy raises a hand to stop them. Obediently, they move back, but their hackles are still raised with suspicion. "He's alive," Remy notes, peering at Damon curiously.

"Witches. They're kind-hearted that way." He walks forward and offers the boy to Remy, who takes him easily into his arms, giving him a look over to make certain he's all right. "He was tearing through the corn fields, got a little too close to the house… We kept him chained so he wouldn't hurt anyone. He passed out this morning, as soon as he turned back."

Remy nods, his lips pursed, and hands the boy off to one of the others. "You could have killed him. Most of your kind would."

"I thought about it," he admits freely. "He was wild, uncontrollable, and had no sense of who was friend or foe… As it is, he's lucky he's young."

Remy hums, nodding. "His name is Laurent. He lost his parents last year, and he's been pulling away from the pack. It's especially difficult on a full moon. We've been doing what we can, but… We're a large pack and we only have so much control when the change comes… There was a time when the witches helped; they'd erect borders around the woods, helped keep us safe, and others too. We haven't had many around these parts in some time."

Damon's eyes narrowed. "You want the Bennetts to help?"

"If they'd be willing. It would benefit all involved. They would stay safe, we wouldn't harm them or the townspeople, and we get to stay in our home…"

Grudgingly, he can admit that it does sound like it could work. It would put his mind at ease to know that his witches were safe from the closest threat around. While he didn't care much for the wolves, they seemed adamant about staying where they were, so the only option was to either work out a mutually beneficial plan or kill all of them. He supposed he could also try to convince the Bennetts to move, but it was unlikely. They were a stubborn bunch and they considered Salem home now.

"I will talk to them," he decides, raising a brow at Remy. "Until then…"

"We will stay away from your witches," he finishes knowingly.

"Right. Good."

Damon turns then, dusting off his jacket as he begins to walk away.

"Damon…" Remy calls.

He looks back.

Remy struggles a moment, but eventually tells him, "Thank you."

There's a grudging respect on his face, and Damon can admit that he enjoys it. He's not sure he returns it, but he likes that he's earned it from someone who is destined to hate every fiber of his being. There's a strange sense of accomplishment in that.

Of course, he doesn't say that. Instead, he smirks. "You're welcome."

A few weeks later, the barrier is erected, a spell written by Gemma herself is used. And, for what it's worth, it would seem that he and Remy are not so much at odds as they are neutral with one another. As far as Remy's concerned, as long as Damon doesn't harm his pack, he's fine, and for Damon, so long as the pack stays away from the Bennetts, Damon won't skin them. It's as close to being allies as he supposes any werewolf and vampire will ever get. He imagines his brother would applaud his new found ability to think first and act later.

* * *

 ** _1889_**

The Kentucky Derby is not one of his favorite events, but Birdie Mae loves it. He still remembers her as a little girl, her hair in braids and her no-nonsense attitude with the other kids. She was just as likely to join her brothers in the field as she was to be at the stove cooking the meals. Nowadays, she prefers pants and loose shirts to any pretty dresses, she often shores her hair to seem more in masculine fashion. Whenever they're out and about, most assume Birdie is a man, which, as it turns out, helps them in some ways, like today. Today she is joining him at the Derby and has laid a few bets of her own. There are still looks, people that are curious about why a person of Birdie's status is at their event, but they say nothing directly to them.

Damon can hear their whispers, their charged and egregious words, whispered under breath. And he thinks of Bonnie, who warned him once that fear and ignorance make people do terrible things. He wasn't strong enough to protect Bonnie, to stand up when he should have, but he's strong now. And should anyone try to harm Birdie, he's willing to fight them off. There's a dark, clawing feeling in his stomach that says he's willing to do more than just fight.

He's known Birdie now since she was knee high. She's nearing on thirty-one now, has children of her own, and a good husband by all accounts. When he first made the deal with Emily that he would protect her children, he'd thought it an easy decision. He hadn't planned to become attached, to worry about them, he had thought to keep his distance and do what was necessary. Now, he realizes the fault in that assumption.

"You see that, Mister Fancy-pants, I told you so. Spokane won this race, fair and square."

His mouth turns up faintly. "You did. In future, I will do better to listen to your expertise." He eyes her curiously and then lets his gaze wander back to the thoroughbred stallion. "What made you pick Spokane? Most favored Proctor Knott." Spokane's odds were 16.4:1, which meant Birdie had just earned herself and her family a pretty penny.

"Mm-mm, Spokane's of the earth," Birdie says, and whistles long and loud through the gap in her front teeth. Arnett taught her to do that when they were on the road, moving on from Mystic Falls, when she was just seven years old, confused and scared. "You can see the power in something, see it ripple through them, can _feel_ it in the air, and you just _know_ … Spokane's strong and fast, he moves like the ground is running away from him."

Damon nods, accepts her words as truth, and reaches out to pat her shoulder. "Let's go collect your winnings, hm?"

She nods happily and stands from her seat to follow him out, her head held high with pride. And Damon thinks he'll have to make a visit to the derby more often. Though not his forte, if it was something Birdie enjoyed, he could always find time to make it happen.

* * *

 ** _1891_**

Sandrea is a quiet girl, the opposite of her brother. Matthew loves to laugh, to play, to be heard, but Sandrea prefers peace and quiet. She and Carlisle get on well. Every Sunday, she tugs at Damon's fingers and asks him to bring her to her uncle's house, where they'll sit on the porch and share a pot of tea together.

Sometimes though, she'll ask Damon to take her other places, for walks in the woods, so she can admire the wildlife, or to town, so she can get a warm biscuit or a treat. Her hand always seems to find his, something her mother taught her long ago. Hold on tight to someone you trust. The townspeople have long become accustomed to Damon's strange affection for the Bennetts, and while he occasionally hears a harsh word said under breath, they never say it loud enough for most to hear. And, more often than not, he gets his revenge in his own way.

Today, Sandrea wants a strawberry tart. There's a baker in town that makes much of his living on bread, but on Wednesdays, he offers desserts. Cookies and pies and tarts. Many of his ingredients are bought from Birdie Mae herself, who tends to a large garden behind her house. While Birdie Mae could, no doubt, make Sandrea the tart herself, there's something special about getting it from town.

So Damon encourages her to put on her best dress and to do her hair as she likes, and together they make their way to town. She's excited, he can tell, she keeps rocking to and fro on her heels. The bakery is busier on Wednesdays than most others, but he's happy to see that much of the traffic has slowed down, and they easily find their way inside, avoiding a line up.

Sandrea pulls on his hand and leads him right up to the display counter, where steaming muffins and hot pies are waiting. She licks her lips and perches the ends of her fingers on the counter as she peers atop it, eyes darting from one delicious treat to the next.

There's an apple pie that smells of warm cinnamon and Damon's mouth waters. It's golden brown with a light spattering of sugar over the top. Sandrea's attention is on the tarts; lemon, strawberry, and mincemeat. She points at the one she wants, very particular about which she believes will taste the best.

The baker smiles at her and plucks it from the rest, handing it to her over the counter. Damon pays for it, smiling as Sandrea licks her lips and bounces a little, excited to eat it. She's careful holding it, her other hand seeking his out, and they leave the bakery together to walk down the dirt road, back toward the path that leads toward her house.

They find a bench to sit on; she's so small, her legs dangle off the ground.

"You can eat it any time," he tells her.

But she chews her lip and replies, "It's too pretty to eat." Her stomach gives a growl that distinctly disagrees.

Damon chuckles. "It's yours to do what you like with. But I don't think the baker made it to be admired."

She hums uncertainly, but then breaks off a little piece of the crust. "Mama says that everything has a soul… Even strawberries."

"I imagine the soul a strawberry has is different from the one you have… It's a part of nature, the earth, but it's not a person, Sandrea. You're not hurting it."

She nods, but still stares at the tart a long moment.

"Nothing can go back to what it was before. The strawberry can't return to the garden any more than the eggs used to make the crust can return to the hen that laid them."

"Do you like strawberries?" she wonders, her brow knit curiously.

"I do." He remembers a picnic under a tree by the stables, a bowl of fresh strawberries between him and Bonnie. Her head on his shoulder and her fingers brushing his lips as she fed one to him. "Very much."

After a few more seconds of uncertainty, Sandrea finally leans forward and sinks her teeth into her tart. She smiles as the strawberries break, juice filling her mouth, and the crust crumbles, bits clinging to her chin. Giggling, she sits back, kicking her legs, and looks up at him with bright, happy eyes.

She reminds him of Bonnie in the most innocent of ways, of the little girl in the kitchen who ignored him every time he tried to get her attention, of how she would grudgingly take the candy he offered her because she had a sweet tooth that couldn't be ignored. That was how he first lured her into being his friend, with licorice and caramels. Without even meaning to, Sandrea gives him the ability to remember Bonnie and not feel the ache that usually stabs at his heart. For that, he'll give her all the strawberry tarts she could ever want for.

* * *

 ** _1892_**

He leaves Stefan letters sometimes, tucked in the folds of books or under the fake bottoms of desk drawers, left at the estate back in Mystic Falls. It was a game they used to play when they were boys. They would leave clues and notes for the other to find. But they haven't been children for a very long time, and he's sure his brother has long forgotten all about it. Still, he has no other way to contact Stefan, so he leaves letters for him in the vain hope they will be found.

He tells Stefan of Emily's children, who haven't truly been children for some time now. But in many ways, he still views them as the little boy and girls they once were. Scared and confused, huddled together in the back of the carriage, wary of him and the life they were setting off toward. He likes to think he did right by them. That their lives were better than they would have been otherwise. He's sure Arnett would have survived without his help though. He would have found a way to take care of the children without him. Truth be told, he knows that they have given him more than he's given them. He's found friendship and comfort and a home in the Bennetts. No matter where he is or how far he goes, he knows that he can always return to them, and they will always invite him in.

When the topic of the Bennetts has run its course and he has no more stories to tell of them, he sends his hopes to Stefan. That his brother has found control, that he isn't the blood obsessed void of a man Damon last saw. He hopes he is happy and well and that he too has found a way of being or a duty to undertake that gives his life purpose.

He doesn't ask where Stefan is, doesn't tell him where the Bennetts live or invite him to visit. There is still a line, a worry that if Stefan is not under control, then he might do something that can't be forgiven. So Damon keeps his distance in that way, even if he misses his little brother, or who he once was. Rather, he hopes that one day they might find each other again, and when that time comes, he hopes that they are both the men they need to be, that they _should_ be.

* * *

 ** _1894_**

Damon is ill equipped for delivering a baby. He's ill equipped for a great many things but this, especially, seems out of his expertise.

"Is there no way for you to slow this process down?" he wonders, pacing the floor of the bedroom. "A spell or an herb or something that might help?"

Gemma is drenched in sweat; she's nearly soaked through the fabric of her night dress, and a vein throbs viciously at her temple. "This baby is coming and you're gonna help it get here," she grits out through clenched teeth. A wave of pain rushes over her as she falls back against the bed and grips tight to the sheets.

He wishes, not for the first time, that Gemma hadn't moved away from Salem; that Birdie Mae, who's birthed three children now, was closer. But she isn't, and Gemma's husband has been working in a neighboring town. Truth be told, he finds himself annoyed that Gemma chose to live in the middle of nowhere. He doesn't want to leave her; he's not certain how long it will take to find a doctor or what will happen in the time he's away. So he stays, and he paces.

"She's comin'. I can feel her," Gemma chokes out, drawing her knees up and pushing at the bed to give herself leverage. "You gotta help me, Damon." Tears spill down her cheeks. "I can't do it on my own."

He rolls his sleeves up, hopes he looks more certain than he feels, and walks to the bed. "Tell me what to do."

She nods, but her face falls as a new wave of pain comes. He reaches for the cloth, drenches it in water and dabs at her forehead. He's not sure it's doing much, but it's better than nothing.

"Suppose this one won't be named for me either?" he tries to joke.

She lets out a laugh, shaking her head. "You still on about that? Most've us are gonna have girls anyways."

"Birdie Mae had a boy," he reminds her, before moving back down the bed.

"One. Odds ain't in your favor none." She starts huffing and puts her hands on her knees. "Ready?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

She smiles tiredly. "I'm gonna be a good mama. I know it."

"Yeah." He nods seriously. "You are."

Taking a deep breath, she starts baring down, and Damon soon finds that he is unprepared for the mess and the blood and the agony of it all. But more than anything, he is unprepared for how quickly he falls in love with the small babe he holds in his arms. His shirt is irrevocably stained, he has seen far more of Gemma than he has ever wanted to, and he would be glad never to repeat the experience. But there are tears in his eyes as he holds a tiny, crying Lizabelle Bennett in his arms. She looks more like a wrinkly raisin than anything, but she's beautiful all the same. Gemma weeps, both from joy and exhaustion, and holds her new baby against her chest while Damon goes about trying to clean up.

He washes the blood away in a basin, smiling to himself all the while, and thinks it a strange contradiction, that a man like himself, dead as he is, has helped bring life into the world. He likes it. Of course, when she has her second child, Ernestine, two years later, he makes sure a much more capable doctor is there to help.

* * *

 ** _1895_**

It's Paula's third birthday; she's the youngest of Birdie Mae's children. Damon has spent an inordinate amount of time looking for a present a toddler might like. Birdie Mae assured him that she wasn't fussy, but Damon wanted the gift to be perfect. He stands in a store, admiring different handmade toys, and finds his mind adrift on a future he could have had. If they had left that night, if they had stolen away and began anew, would they have had children? A Paula of their own, with Bonnie's smile and his eyes, beautiful brown skin and a musical laugh. Damon feels a tug at his heart, grief for a dream lost, and tries to shake it off.

Eventually, one of the shop workers comes to him, asks what he might be looking for, and before long, he has a receipt for a custom made doll in hand. They shop owner looks surprised when he asks that the doll not be white, that it was especially important, but he hadn't argued, nor had he tossed out any cruel remarks. He'd simply paused and then agreed to make it. Two weeks later, he was able to pick up the doll, with brown skin and brown eyes, dark hair in multiple twists. It was perfect. It looked just like Paula.

"I never seen a doll that color," Birdie Mae tells him later, after Paula is put to bed for a nap with her doll held tight in her arms. "Not one like that. Some of the other folks, they make dolls, make sure they look like us, but nothing so fancy as that."

"They should. I think she likes it."

"Likes," she scoffs, waving a hand. "She loves it. You outdone the rest of us."

He ducks his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"You made her happy, that's all that matters."

Damon nods, but still feels an awkward energy that makes his feet shuffle.

Birdie Mae stares at him a long moment, her brow furrowed, and she opens her mouth. There's a pause, where she almost second guesses herself, but then she lifts her chin and goes ahead anyway. "I don't remember Miss Bonnie. Uncle Arnett told me about her, 'bout the deal you made with my mama. I didn't understand it for some time. People like you, people of your color, they don't like me and mine. They got a hate in them that must burn them up something fierce. Couldn't imagine someone like you loving someone like me. Just didn't make no sense."

Her gaze wanders away a moment and she wrings her hands. "You were a good man though. Way you always kept an eye on us. Would'a been easy to walk away. Mama was gone and there was no takin' back the magic she already spent. So you… You didn't _have_ to be here. But you _were_." She nods, smiling up at him faintly. "Always been there when I needed you, helped out when we needed it. I thought, at first, maybe that was pity. Maybe you was trying to make up for what happened to Miss Bonnie and my mama. And maybe you was, maybe that's part of it, but I think it's something more too. I sure hope it is. 'Cause we don't want pity, Damon." Her head tilts up and there's a familiar fire in her eyes. "We don't _need_ pity. You wanna be good to us, you want to be our friend, you want to protect us like you promised, you do that, but you do it _right_. Ain't no space for pity around here."

He returns her heavy stare and bobs his head. "I don't pity you, Birdie. I might pity myself sometimes, but not you. Not your family."

"Good." She waves him away then. "Now go on, wash up, you can help me make supper."

He half-smiles, and turns on his heels to do just that.

* * *

 ** _1897_**

Sandrea doesn't hold his hand anymore; she's twelve years old and too old for that, she says. But she still joins him each Wednesday and picks out a treat of her choosing. She talks more now than she did as a young girl, but still not nearly as much as Matthew or even Paula. Sandrea's a thinker; she likes to muse on things for a good, long time before she puts them out there in the world.

"What was your Bonnie like?" she asks one afternoon, as they sit on the same bench they always have. She's picked a lemon tart today and is slowly chipping away at the crust.

"Who told you about Bonnie?" he wonders.

"I hear things. People talkin'…" She shrugs. "Grandpa says Bonnie is why you stay with us."

They've called Arnett grandpa since they were children, and nobody saw any reason to correct it. So far as Damon can tell, Arnett actually likes the title, takes pride in it even.

"Bonnie is… _was_ …" He frowns, not quite sure how to explain it to someone her age.

"Is she like Auberine? Matthew's girl?"

Damon thinks back to the pretty young woman Matthew's been courting for the last year, remembers that wistful look on his face as he talked about how her eyes were the color of honey. He was a romantic, that was for sure, but Damon hopes it turns out well for him, and Auberine too. She seems like a lovely young woman, and just as smitten with Matthew as he is with her.

"Sure," he tells Sandrea. "Bonnie and I met when she was even younger than you. Her mother worked in my house."

"Was a slave, you mean," she corrects knowingly.

"She was, yes. Suppose Bonnie was considered a slave too." His mouth pinches and he wipes his hands on the knees of his pants. "I… I fell in love with Bonnie when I was about your age, but… She didn't feel the same. Or maybe she kept her distance because of the rules and how society feels about things. Perhaps both."

"But she loved you later?"

"She did." He nods, his eyes growing distant. "I had this… _dream_ , you might say, to run away, find somewhere better, somewhere not so corrupt with judgement, and we would start anew there. Get married, have a family, grow old together…"

Sandrea sits back on the bench, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Where is it? The place you were gonna run."

He swallows tightly, half-smiles, and admits, "I'm not so sure it exists."

Humming, she gazes at her tart a long moment. "Do you think there will be? Some day?"

He looks back to her. "I hope so. I genuinely do."

Her head nods. "Me too."

* * *

 ** _1899_**

Damon has never heard of a hunter until he meets one. He supposes he should start asking more questions about the magical community. Gemma is a veritable encyclopedia, so he vows to take her up on her many offers to educate him in the ways of the supernatural. Of course, that will have to happen _after_ he deals with the hunter.

Judging by the smell of wolfsbane he has on him and the clear lack of stakes, Damon quickly realizes that it is not _him_ that the hunter is after, but his far more hairy brethren. The barrier around the werewolf pack is only raised during the full moon, so they can come and go as they please every other night, and so can everyone else.

In the distance, he can hear children playing, wrestling in the leaves and the grass. In Damon's opinions, the wolves are dirty and unkempt, but they seem happy with their lifestyle. Besides, he drinks blood to survive, so he supposes he shouldn't judge too harshly. At least not out loud. He and Remy have an agreement to let each other live, one that has thus far held up. They hadn't, at any point, agreed to look out for one another. That would be stretching their thin status of allies a little too far. But Damon is curious and, admittedly, rather bored, so he tracks the hunter through the woods to see what he might do.

There are traps in his bags, meant for a bear but just as easily used on a wolf. Judging by the smell, he assumes the metal teeth are laced with wolfsbane to be sure that his prey will not easily remove it from themselves and heal. It's an archaic looking thing, and he carries more than one. He digs a holy in the dirt to bury it and covers it with leaves and branches. Damon's not sure exactly what he hopes to accomplish. That he might gravely injure at least one person, or that he'll kill whomever is trapped, and just work his way through the pack. It seems a poorly thought out plan, but it isn't as if he's going to intervene to give the man better hunting tips.

Damon is hiding behind a tree in the distance, watching with his advanced sight, and eating a particularly juicy apple. As the man leaves his newly planted trap to move further along the woods, Damon speeds ahead a little to keep him in sight. He's passed the trap when he hears the hurried steps of children. They're playing a chasing game, where one is the wolf hunting them and all the others are hares running for their lives.

He can feel it like a damp flood of dread down his back, and he turns abruptly, racing back the way he came. Two boys have successfully evaded the trap without even knowing it. But a girl, she can't be much older than Paula, lags just behind them, and isn't so lucky. Damon hooks an arm around her waist and lifts her up just as the trap is triggered. The teeth close a hair's breath from the ends of her toes. She clutches his hand, tears in her eyes and a wobble to her mouth. He pats her back briefly before handing her toward the other shocked kids, all staring at him with wary confusion.

"Find your parents," he tells them. When they don't move immediately, he points back toward the pack's camp. " _Go_."

They jump and scurry ahead, racing across the ground quickly. With a snarl, he turns his head, and spots the hunter in the distance. He's seen the whole thing, and meets Damon's gaze with wide eyes. He drops the trap he has in his hands and quickly reaches for a stray branch. Damon is behind him, an arm around his neck, while the other snaps the wrist of the hand desperately trying to make a twig into a stake.

"You must be new to town… I don't think we've met," Damon says, squeezing his forearm down harder against the man's jugular, until his air supply is completely cut off and his skin begins to turn a promising red. "It would be discourteous of me not to introduce you to everyone, don't you think?"

His bulging eyes stare up at Damon as he chokes, spittle flying from his lips. He grapples against Damon's hold, clawing at his arm, but Damon barely feels it. He races them through the woods until he's at the center of the camp and makes eye contact with the nearest man. "Get Remy," he orders him.

While it earns him a sneer, the man still walks off to find his leader, and returns with him a few minutes later.

"You've drawn attention," Damon tells him, finally releasing the hunter's neck so he can gasp for air.

The little girl that had nearly been ensnared by the trap comes hurrying forward then and tugs at Remy's shirt, pointing at Damon meaningfully with her other hand.

Remy pats her head and stares at the hunter, asking Damon, "He set the trap?"

"I saw him, yes. He had a few others with him, but I don't think he had a chance to get another one down before I caught up."

Remy's mouth purses. "His target was the pack?"

"The traps are laced with wolfsbane. He doesn't have anything with him meant for a vampire. He seemed surprised to find me here."

"Werewolves and vampires rarely share ground," Remy mutters absently. Taking a deep breath, he walks forward, eyeing the hunter. "We have… ways of dealing with people this."

Damon shoves the hunter forward, letting Remy take hold of him. "Whatever punishment you deem fit is none of my concern."

The hunter looks up at him, something desperate in his eyes, but Damon remembers the clang of the trap slamming shut, the tears in the little girl's eyes, and he feels no compassion for the hunter. He dismisses him easily and returns his attention to Remy. "If he was looking for werewolves, he might not have prepared for me. If there's no vervain in his system, I can compel him to tell me how he found you and if there are any more traps in the forest."

Remy smiles, slow and vicious. "We have our own ways of getting the answers we need."

Damon hums. He can't say he's ever tortured anyone, but he knows the lengths he would go to for the Bennetts, and if it had been any of Birdie Mae's or Gemma's children nearly caught in that trap, he knows the violence that would have spilled from him would have been absolute. "The offer stands." He turns to leave then, chucking the little girl under her chin as he does.

"We're in your debt, Salvatore," Remy calls after him.

Damon waves a hand over his shoulder. "To be collected at a later date."

He wonders if that will come in handy one day. It seems rather advantageous to ally himself with witches and werewolves.

* * *

 ** _1901_**

Birdie Mae raises her children on magic. From a young age, they learn the ins and outs of it all. It reminds him of when Gemma was a little girl and could never drag her nose from the depths of the Bennett grimoire. Matthew, Sandrea, and Paula learn much the same way. While Paula enjoys working with herbs, often joining her mother in the garden or to collect flora from the forest, Sandrea is more of a practical student, investing her time in reading and re-reading all there is to know in the Bennett grimoire and the many journals her mother keeps. Matthew prefers to put words to action; when he isn't helping Carlisle and Arnett with the farm, he's seeing what spells he can bend to his will, constantly pushing his non-verbal skills.

Damon, a somewhat new student to the art of magic, spends much of his time with Sandrea and Paula. The latter of whom teaches him each and every herb she's ever seen or planted. She tells him how they need to be taken care of, what they can be used for, and how to handle them so they don't harm the person picking them, as many are poisonous. She has a green thumb that reminds him of Bellamy, which isn't too surprising, given she's the same age that Bellamy was when she died. It does cause the occasional feeling of melancholy though.

Sandrea isn't keen on herbs, preferring to be inside wither books. She lets him read the notes she takes and quizzes him on magical lore each week. There's a lot more to learn than he first anticipated. The background behind werewolves is deep and, at times, very gruesome. That murder is what triggers them seems a heavy toll to take on one's conscious, though he can't say his own kind is any gentler. Much of vampire history is marked with death and decay to a degree that even he feels a little sick at reading it. It reminds him of his brother, of the savagery Stefan displayed that was nothing like the man Damon knew his brother to be. He was lucky in that way, he supposes, to have a degree of control his brother had never been able to reach.

"Have you ever killed somebody?" Sandrea asks him one day.

He looks up from his own book of note-keeping and raises his brows in surprise. "Are you sure you want to know?"

She frowns, as though she isn't, but then shakes her head and tilts her chin up. It would seem that stubbornness is a family trait, passed down, generation to generation.

Her eyes narrow at him. "I'm not a _baby_ , Damon. I'm almost full grown!"

His mouth twitches faintly. "I never said you were." She's sixteen years old, but there's an innocence to her that belies her true age.

"Does mama know? Or Matthew or Grandpa?"

"I can't say that anyone's ever truly _asked_ me what my death toll might be at."

She gulps, gaze falling to the table. "So you have then?"

"Yes," he admits, and feels the stirrings of guilt in his stomach. "Has your mother ever told you about Joe and Bellamy?"

Eyes turned up thoughtfully, it takes a moment, and then she grabs for the grimoire and flips to the back. Her fingers move over the long-dried ink. "Mama's brother and sister. They died, didn't they?"

He nods. "In '72, yes."

Sandrea looks stricken for a moment, and her hand raises to her throat. "You didn't…"

He realizes immediately what she fears and he shakes his head. "I didn't kill them."

Her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she blows out a heavy breath. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine. I understand why you'd ask."

"No, it's not. I know you wouldn't do that. Mama always said you were our protector. I jumped to conclusions, it was silly of me."

He turns his gaze to the family tree that Birdie Mae must have drawn in some time ago. It's a loose piece of paper, not part of the original book. "Joe and Bellamy were young. They became sick and there was… I couldn't save them, not from that."

Sandrea stares at him, but says nothing, letting his words hang there in the air. She's waiting, he knows, for him to tell her more, to spill how the deaths affected him. It would usually be about this time that he changed the subject to something lighter. He doesn't do well with heavy emotions, he knows that. He was an emotional person before the change, and even now, it sometimes feels like they're too strong, overwhelmingly so.

"Emily's only request of me was that I take care of her children. I'd thought it an easy task. I hadn't considered the very human realities of life. There are some things that magic can't change. I was there when they passed. I… I listened to their hearts stop, carried their bodies from the room, wrapped in blankets Birdie Mae had knit them, and I helped Arnett bury them while I listened to the others cry themselves hoarse." His eyes sting with tears. "For _months_ , I would swear I could still hear their last breaths; that I could feel the soil trapped under my nails… So I tried to— to drown it out somehow. My _failures_. I tried to bury them in blood and death, and I ran as far away as I could get. But it was useless. My mistakes only followed me, my regrets trailed my every step, until finally I realized that it was time to go back. That there were others I needed to care for, to protect, and I found my way here."

Sandrea stares at him, her mouth turned down. "Do you regret it? All those people?"

"I do. If there is one thing I have in great abundance it is regret."

She chews her lip and nods, before finally turning back to her notes, her shoulders hunched a little.

He watches her a moment, from the corner of his eyes. "Do you think me a monster?" he wonders.

Her eyes stay down, at her page, as she seems to consider his question. "I think… I think death does things to people, twists 'em up real bad. And sometime we get turned around, we do things we don't wanna do, until something or someone shows us the right way to go."

He half-smiles. "So the Bennetts are my lighthouse, hm?"

Her eyes raise to meet his then. "Just when you really need it. Every other day though, you gotta find your own way around in the dark."

It sounds simple, but it's not. He's a vampire by nature, the dark should be familiar ground, but he finds that, more often than not, that's where he gets lost the most. For now, however, he is firmly in the light, and he hopes it lasts a great deal longer.

* * *

 **author's note** : _since i have a couple days off, i might try to get an update up tomorrow and the day after. they're already written, i just need to edit them. or would people prefer a couple days in between updates? i know the chapters get a little long..._

 _thanks so much for reading! please try to leave a review!_

\- **lee | fina**


	4. sunset

**warning(s)** : period-typical racism (discussion of lynching) ; explicit violence  
 **word count** : 7,585  
 **summary** : Damon's never been one to consider the consequences, so when his cowardice causes the demise of his first love, he'll do anything to make it right. Including making a deal with a witch. [reincarnation fic]

* * *

 **TRIGGER WARNING** : explicit violence is detailed in this chapter!

* * *

 **IV.**

 ** _1902_**

Damon wouldn't say the werewolves _like_ him, exactly, but they've grown used to his presence and no longer look at him like he's an enemy to be sneered at or avoided. The children more than the parents are welcoming of him, something he assumes has to do with his helping Ailish, the young girl who'd nearly been ensnared by the hunter's bear trap. She searches him out each time he visits now, walking at his side, eyeing him curiously. Her hair is a tangled web of brown curls and she looks like she spends most of her time rolling in the dirt, but there's a certain charm about her and the toothy smile she offers whenever she sees him. Today, she's following him as he walks with Remy. She's hiding out of sight. He can hear her heartbeat though, just a little quick as she trails close by.

"Your pack seems restless today," he notices, casting a curious eye around.

During the time he's become acquainted with the wolf pack, he's found their tempers are quick to spark and easy to violence, but never toward each other. His studying with Birdie Mae tells him that's normal; wolves won't hurt each other, not even those who haven't been triggered yet, intrinsically aware of their brethren. But they seem more snarly today than they usually do.

"Some of the little ones are sick," Remy tells him, frowning. "We don't see it often in our kind. Even without the trigger, we're more… _advanced_ than the average human. But the young ones are more susceptible."

Damon frowns, thinking of the flus that the Bennett children have suffered through. His heart pangs at the memory of Joe and Bellamy and he soon finds himself saying, "I can speak to Birdie. She may have something that can help."

Remy hesitates only a moment before nodding. "If she's willing, we won't turn her down."

"I can't guarantee anything," he warns. "There are some things that can't be helped."

He feels Remy's heavy stare on him, but refuses to turn and meet it. "I never asked how you turned..."

"Are you asking now?" Damon wonders, a brow arched.

Remy's grin is crooked and amused. "Would you answer if I did?"

"I was shot," he says it simply.

His brow furrows, seeming surprised. "So it wasn't on purpose then?"

"Not being shot, no." He purses his lips, thinking of the noose hanging in the woods. "I'd planned a different death."

There's an unnatural stillness to Remy for just a moment, but he's quick to shake it off and return to his usual lazy lean, unperturbed by the world at large. "So you did plan it?"

"To a degree."

His eyes wander the woods in front of him as they walk. He can hear the children playing in a creek nearby, shrieking and laughing as they chase and splash each other. There was a lake by the estate, he remembers. He and Stefan used to go swimming in the summers, leap off the dock into the chilly depths. Stefan was a poor swimmer; he used to hold onto Damon's neck and make him tow him back to land when he panicked. It never stopped him from trying though, of leaping into the water and hoping perhaps this time he would be better, this time he wouldn't sink.

"I made a deal with a witch, one I won't see my end of for another century. In the meantime, I make sure her family is well taken care of."

Remy hums. "Only a few things I can think of that'd be worth dying for…"

"Suppose there are."

"Family is one… children, especially. The protection of others too, if you're the heroic type."

"I wouldn't go so far as that," he muses. "Heroics have never been my forte."

"Think the Bennetts might argue that." Remy looks past Damon then, to the curious green eyes watching them from a bush. "Ailish too."

Giving a squeak at being caught, Ailish jumps before she runs off to hide once more.

Damon shakes his head a little and continues on through the woods.

"If I had to guess though, I'd say a woman. You seem the kind of man."

"What kind of man is that?" he wonders.

Remy grins. "A romantic fool."

He laughs, his head ducking. "I've been called worse."

"Doesn't surprise me." He runs a hand through his hair, streaked with silver now. "Suppose it was worth it then?"

Damon thinks back to Bonnie, her green eyes bright and warm, a smirk tugging at her mouth as she shakes her head at him, the sharp tone she'd take when he'd done something particularly reckless… "Yes," he says. "Absolutely."

Remy nods, hopping over a fallen tree. "Then what's another hundred years?"

He laughs, but there's a hollow feeling in his chest. What Emily's done for him is a miracle, he knows that, but that doesn't make the time pass any quicker.

He spots Ailish at the end of the path then, chewing on her lip as she stares up at him curiously, and he smiles. At least he has some interesting company to pass the time with. He holds a hand out to her, and she hurries over to take it, kicking up dirt with her bare feet.

"How have you been since last I saw you, Ailish?"

She takes a deep breath, reminding him of the Bennett girls, and he grins as he listens to her fill the silence with her chatter.

* * *

Lizabelle is an affectionate child. As soon as she sees Damon, she demands a hug and then proceeds to drag him around by his hand for his entire visit. Even now, at eight years old, she wants to sit perched on his shoulders as he walks through the woods, collecting a few ingredients for something Gemma's working on while Ernestine naps.

"Mama says you was there when I was born," she chirps, reaching for an overhanging green leaf as they pass beneath it. Plucking it off, she twirls it between her fingers and then tucks it behind his ear to be worn proudly as they continue their woodland adventure.

"I was the first to hold you when you were birthed," he tells her, with no little amount of pride. "You looked like a raisin."

Lizabelle giggles. "A pretty raisin?"

"The prettiest," he agrees.

"And smart too!"

He laughs. "The smartest."

She reaches a hand down to pat his cheek before she wiggles around and scoops a hand out to snag a few berries from a high standing bush. She holds them forward for him to see, waiting for him to look them over and nod before she eats them.

He keeps one hand on her knee for balance, especially when he's hopping over logs or speeding at random. Lizabelle is a good sport though; she simply laughs as she's jarred or the pace picks up. She reminds him of Stefan that way. When he was a little boy, Damon would carry him on his shoulders in much the same fashion. Perhaps it was the implicit trust he had in Damon, but he was never afraid that he might fall.

"Did you write your letters?" he wonders, a brow raised as he ducks low so she won't bump her head on a branch.

"Mm-hmm," she says, and then holds out a mushed berry for him.

He wrinkles his nose but plucks it off her stained fingers and eats it anyway. "How many?"

"I wrote one for Matthew and Sandy and Paula to share. And I wrote one for Aunt Birdie and a real long one for Grandpa, and a small one for Carlisle, 'cause he doesn't talk so much."

Damon's lips kicked up with amusement. "I'm sure he'd be happy to read your letter, no matter the length."

"Ernestine's letters are real short. She's not as good a writer as me."

"No?"

"No, I'm gonna write books when I'm old. Ernestine isn't though. She doesn't like it. She likes animals. She'd sleep in the barn if mama would let her."

"Nothing wrong with animals or books."

Humming, she wiggles around. "What about you?"

"What did I want to be when I grew up?" he clarifies.

"Yeah!"

"Well…" His brow furrows. "I suppose I mostly expected to take up my father's business in his stead for some time. And later, when I decided I wanted a different life, I hadn't given much thought to what I would do… I enjoy books too, but I wouldn't call myself a writer, that was more my brother's trade. I enjoyed art when I was a boy. My mother and I used to paint together. She was much more talented than I ever was though."

"What were _you_ good at?" Lizabelle wonders guilelessly.

He half-smiles. "Not much, unfortunately."

He remembers enjoying things more than he remembers being good at them. His interests varied as a boy, growing bored quickly and taking up some new hobby as soon as the last one grew stale. He stopped painting when his mother died; couldn't look at a canvas for years. The one thing he kept up was piano, but not for others, not where he might be heard or judged. Just for himself, testing the ivory keys beneath his fingers, searching for a new song, a new tune, one all his own. Bonnie would sit with him sometimes, her head against his arm, eyes closed as she listened. She'd hum along with him, as if she knew just which key he'd play next.

Lizabelle shakes her head and reaches down to smoosh his cheeks. "Mama says everybody's good at somethin'. They just gotta try everything 'til they find what it is."

He pats her hands and his smile becomes a little more genuine. "Well, I suppose I have some time to find it then, don't I?"

Her laugh is loud and robust and she leans back a little too far, nearly slipping from his shoulders. But Damon anticipates it. Like Stefan, she knows he'll catch her, and so he does.

* * *

Damon delivers the letters with a few gifts he picked up on his travels. He leaves Arnett for last, and joins him on the porch with a bottle of bourbon and three new letters from Gemma, Lizabelle and Ernestine. Arnett smiles when he sees them, the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced.

"They're doing good?"

"They're happy." Damon unscrews the bottle and pours them each a glass. "And safe."

"Gemma plan on visiting soon?" he wonders.

"Hopes to."

Arnett frowns, shaking his head, and takes a sip from his bourbon. "Been too long. Don't like them livin' so far out. Husband of hers ain't even around half the time."

"Gemma's always been independent. She likes having the house to herself, just her and the girls."

"Still. Should move closer. Don't have so many years left in me. Like to see the little ones grow up with my own two eyes." He rocks back in his seat and drags a hand over his mouth, scratching at the bristles of his grey beard.

Much as Damon doesn't like to admit it, Arnett is right, time is catching up to him. "You could always join me the next time I make a trip down," he suggests.

"With these old bones?" He scoffs. "Liable to die on the road like an old work horse."

Damon snorts. "You're getting dramatic in your old age."

Arnett laughs. "Maybe I am. But I've earned it."

Topping off their glasses, Damon raises his in cheers. "Yes, you have… The offer stands though."

"We'll see," he allows, but looks a little appeased all the same.

* * *

"You're late." Sandrea raises a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. "You promised you'd be back yesterday."

"I am, and I apologize." Damon takes a seat beside her on their bench. He holds out a small box, which she takes with a curious frown, untying the ribbon from the top and opening it to peer inside. "It's not a tart, and it probably doesn't taste nearly as good as the baker's would have yesterday. But it's sweet and the fruit is fresh."

She reaches inside to pull out the cupcake, with blueberries and slices of strawberry atop the icing. "It's real… _fancy_."

He smiles slowly. "I seem to remember you once telling me that a strawberry tart was too pretty to eat."

Sandrea rolls her eyes, but bites her lip to hide her smile. "It was plenty tasty."

"Then let's hope this is too." He nods at her. "An apology for my poor time management."

Sitting back on the bench, she tells him, "Can't always buy forgiveness with dessert, you know."

"It hasn't failed me yet."

Laughing, she swipes a finger through the icing for a taste and hums appreciatively. "Not as good as a tart, but… it'll do." She sinks her teeth into it then, and catches a blueberry before it falls.

Damon grins at her, feeling rather vindicated, at least until she throws the blueberry at him and it bounces off his nose.

* * *

 ** _1903_**

The forest was alive with the skittering of animal feet and the thumping of their hearts as Damon and Gemma made their way through. He carries a basket, filled with the jars she was using to collect various flora. As it was, their outing had been overshadowed with the news that a coven had contacted her in hopes that she might help with a grave issue they were dealing with.

"This seems an… unwise decision," Damon tells her.

"You heard what these rippers have been doing. Trails of bodies in their wake. If they ain't taken care of, not even _you_ are gonna be able to keep us safe."

She holds a hand out for a new jar as she kneels beside a tree and examines a curious purple moss. He hands her a jar from the basket, keeping the lid in his palm while she fills it.

"I got children to think of. I don't agree so much with the ways of the Gemini Coven. You ask me, they playing with fire with that twin magic. But these siphoners, they're trouble. It's not right, not what nature wants, having the power of a witch and the appetite of a vampire. Abomination is what that is."

She stands, handing him back the jar, and dusts her dress off at the knees.

"And you think you can help? You think you can… send them away, somewhere they won't be able to harm others?" His lips purse thoughtfully.

"I made the spell, it'll work. They use their own power to get it done."

"And _your_ blood." He frowns. "You trust them not to use it for something more… nefarious?"

"I'll be there to make sure it's done right. Has to be a Bennett though, that way we know the Heretics ain't getting out. None of my family is gonna give 'em the blood needed to let 'em free."

His brow furrows. "You realize that blood doesn't always need to be _offered_. Some are willing to _take_ it."

Gemma smiles at him, showing all her teeth, and he's reminded that the Bennetts are not often trifled with, and for good reason. "They can go ahead and try. We'll see who comes out in the end."

Damon lets out a faint laugh, and shakes his head. "You make my life rather difficult, Gemma."

She scoffs. "And you worry too much. We're doing the right thing here. These people, they ain't like you, ain't got your control. They're monsters, Damon. Real, live ones. They'll destroy everything in their path. We can't let them do that."

He thinks on it a moment, and then takes a deep breath. "Okay. I will join you, provide safety."

She snorts at him. "Liable to get yourself tossed over there with 'em if you try."

"I'll not take 'no' for an answer on this one," he tells her seriously. "You aren't required for the spell, are you? They just need your blood."

She nods slowly. "I hear you. We leave before they make their move then. Give 'em what they ask and go on home before the fight starts."

"That way too, if things go wrong, the siphoners won't have a chance to make you their next meal." He grimaces at that. "We'll leave in the morning. Best to act quickly."

"All right. I'll be ready."

He leaves her in front of her porch before he takes his leave. It's all very simple as he sees it; they will go and return, having no interaction with the heretics at all. The siphoners will be dealt with and the Bennetts will remain safe. Duty served, world saved. If only his mother could see him now, the man he's become, the things he does, the knowledge he's accumulated, the company he keeps. He wonders if she would be proud. He likes to think so.

* * *

"We should have brought Birdie Mae," Damon tells her, his eyes wandering the room suspiciously. It's filled to the brim with Gemini Coven members and it's making his skin crawl. "Bennetts are stronger when they're together. We're severely outnumbered."

"Ain't us they're trying to fight." Gemma shakes her head. "They asked for my help, that's all I'm offering."

"If they needed your help, then why are they making you wait?" He shifts his feet impatiently. He doesn't like this. The heretics are due to arrive in the morning, en route aboard a ship from England, and Damon wants Gemma as far away from them and their blood thirst as possible.

"You got somewhere you need to be?" she asks, grinning up at him. "Suppose you're eager to see what New York has to offer."

"I've been here before, more than once. If you want to go sight-seeing, I'm happy to oblige. The sooner we leave here, the sooner I can be your tour guide."

"Miss Gemma," a voice calls, before a man saunters up to her, hand out for her to take. The man is ordinary in every way; medium height and build with carefully combed brown hair and dull brown eyes.

"Callum," she greets, bobbing her head and ignoring his hand.

"We can't thank you enough for coming to our aid."

"Just glad you contacted me," she say. "Sounds like you got a serious problem on your hands."

" _Seven_ serious problems, at last count."

"And they're all from your coven?"

"All but one; their maker. She isn't like them, she has no magical abilities, but from what we've been able to gather on her, she's a Ripper. And a very adept one."

"Are the heretics Rippers too, or does the siphoning encourage their hunger?" Damon wonders.

Callum looks to him, pauses, and then returns his gaze to Gemma. "You've brought an… acquaintance."

Damon can hear his heartbeat pick up just a little, and doesn't bother to curb the uptick of his mouth. "I insisted on joining her."

"I had no idea that you kept such _company_ , Miss Gemma," Callum mutters, his nostrils flaring with distaste.

Gemma's friendly nature flees abruptly, her eyes turning hard as she arches a brow. "Damon is _family_. _You_ asked for _my_ help; keep your judgements to yourself."

Flushing, Callum clears his throat and tilts his chin. "My apologies. I was just surprised, that's all."

"Disapproving, more like. I didn't come here to have you look down on me or mine. You want my help or don't you?"

"We do, yes, of course." Callum's hands raise beseechingly. "I truly am sorry."

"Ain't me you need to be apologizing to."

He blinks at her a moment and then, very slowly, he turns to Damon. "I apologize for my… unkind behaviour toward you, Mister Damon."

"Miss Gemma has a schedule to keep, so if we could focus on the issue at hand…" Damon suggests, looking between them.

"Right, yes." Callum wipes his damp palms on his vest quickly. "We will need your help with the spell, just to be sure we have the inflection right."

"I can teach it to you." Gemma nods. "But we'll be on our way soon as you know it."

"Of course, we've already inconvenienced you enough."

"I'm trusting you to do right by this, Callum. There's only enough blood here for you to deal with these folks as you said. You get one chance."

"We'll make the most of it, I promise you. Your efforts have not been wasted."

"Good. Then we got a spell to learn..." As Callum turns to call the others together, Gemma grins at Damon. "I have some shoppin' to get to."

Amused, he merely shakes his head. So long as they're outside of New York by morning, he'll buy her whatever she desires.

* * *

"You don't think it's too big?" Gemma wonders, fussing with her new hat as they walk down the sidewalk.

It's absolutely too large, and rather gaudy, in his opinion, but Gemma loves it. It's the fanciest thing she's ever owned and he keeps seeing her smile at her reflection whenever they pass by a window. "I think it's perfectly sized."

"You're just sayin' that. You hate it," she accuses, but grins all the same.

Damon scoffs. "When have I ever said something I didn't mean?"

"Plenty. You spin the truth to fit your needs whenever it suits you."

She hooks her arm through his as they walk down the road, her chin held high despite the curious looks being offered their way. The hat matches her new dress, and Damon can honestly say that Gemma has never looked quite so fashionable. It's a strange sight, if only because he's used to her more lived-in dresses back home. She's beautiful either way; she always has been. But here, she seems to find a new sense of balance. Gemma's always been curious about the world, about what adventure and knowledge is out there, waiting to be found. He's happy he gets to spend this time away with her; that she gets to experience a little more of the world. It suits her.

"Let's do something fun," she suggests, smiling up at him. "Something I can't do back home."

He nods. "Anything you want. Take your pick."

A ship with seven devils is due to dock in the morning, but for today, New York is at _their_ mercy, and Damon plans to make the best of it.

* * *

By the time Gemma is home and Damon has returned to Salem, he is happy to put the city behind him. She convinced him to wait, to be sure that the siphoners had been sent away to their prison world, and so they made a visit to Callum before they left. The vampire maker and her six heretics were gone, and the bloodbath they left behind would be just one of many, hopefully never to be repeated. Damon knows history is never so kind though, and imagines he'll see carnage like that more than once in the coming century. But he's relieved, at least, that Gemma was not caught in the crossfire of it all. She helped, as was her nature, but she's safe and well and probably wearing her hat as she goes about her regular day. For Damon, it's just one of many adventures he's joined the Bennetts on, and he looks forward to the many more to come.

"You look tired," Arnett says, as Damon takes a seat on the steps of the porch, overlooking the field of corn ahead of him.

"I'm happy to be back," he sighs with a shrug. "Did you see the gifts Gemma sent to you?"

"Saw a hat in there, bigger n' any head could ever need."

He laughs under his breath. "You'll be the talk of the town."

"Couldn't show my face in town if I ever put it on."

Damon merely smiles. "I like the feather. It's very fetching."

With a guffaw, Arnett rocks his chair a little quicker, grumbling under his breath.

But much later that night, when he thinks no one is there to bear witness to it, Damon sees him don the hat and strut around his home, looking quite proud of himself and his new fashion accessory. And despite the fact that Damon would prefer to never have any of the Bennetts around that kind of danger again, he can admit that the trip was well worth the image of Arnett wearing a velvet top hat adorned with colorful peacock feathers.

* * *

 ** _1904_**

It's Remy that warns him first; tracks Damon down as he's leaving Carlisle's for Birdie Mae's. His expression is pinched and there's something feral in his eyes that Damon hasn't seen in some time. "There's a vampire in town. Best take care of him before he draws too much attention."

Damon nods. "I'll take care of it."

"If he keeps up like he is, someone's bound to get suspicious."

The town is relatively quiet. The people work and keep to themselves. Since rebuilding from the Civil War it's stayed on the small side, which is how Damon likes it. He had little enough interaction with the townspeople in the beginning that the majority of them believe him to be the son of the first Salvatore to arrive in town. Eventually, he knows he'll have to move on, or get better at avoiding the town, but for now, he's safe enough.

Damon's careful about his own feeding. He never kills anyone, just takes what he needs, compels them to forget, and goes about his business. But over the course of a night, bodies have been collecting, and whoever's doing it, hasn't been shy. He leaves them out in the open, willing them to be found, and Damon's starting to think it's a message.

He tracks the newcomer down to the pub, where he sits on a stool with a bottle of rum in one hand and a pale, confused looking woman in the other. Blood dribbles down her neck and stains the collar of her dress. Damon doesn't know her by name, but he vaguely recognizes her. She's the widow of the dry goods store owner. He always gave Birdie Mae's kids a free piece of licorice to share between them. He'd passed a few years earlier —heart complications, Damon thinks— and his wife has been in mourning ever since.

Her heart is slow and Damon doesn't think she'll live much longer. He can smell the death and decay on the air and knows that a couple other patrons and probably the bar tender himself have already been killed. Just more to add to the growing body count.

Damon takes a seat on the stool next to the man, a leery feeling crawling up his back. The vampire is clean-shaven, seeming unperturbed by the interruption, simply passing a look in Damon's direction before dismissing him as a non-threat.

"Hope you haven't come for a drink. Afraid the barkeep is a little indisposed at the moment." He has a distinct Irish accent, the stranger, and there's an underlying amusement to his words.

"I'll manage," Damon replies, his eyes narrowed. "You've certainly made yourself at home."

"Have I stepped on some toes then?" His brows hike. "Is there not enough to go around for the both of us?"

"I'm afraid I'm not fond of sharing." Damon's mouth raises in a half-smirk. "In an effort to be polite, I'll let you finish your drink." He looks to the bottle meaningfully before he stands.

"Oh, well, isn't that _kind_ of ya." He releases the widow, who slumps from her seat to collapse on the floor. Much as Damon regrets her death, if he were to give her his blood now, she would turn.

Hand outstretched, the man looks to Damon expectantly, despite the blood that cakes it.

Damon's lip curls, but he reaches out to shake his hand.

"Quinn," he introduces himself. "And who might you be then?"

"Damon."

"Aye, nice to meet ya, Damon. Fancy a drink?" He waves the bottle to him.

"No. Thank you, but I'll pass." Damon retracts his hand and tucks it in his pocket in an effort not to wipe it on his pants. "I'd appreciate it, however, if you cleaned up before you left."

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I have manners." There's a glint in his eye, a sparkle that Damon finds himself wary of.

Trying to shake it off, Damon turns to face the door.

"Before I go though, how's about a little game, hm?"

Damon raises an eyebrow and looks back at him. "A game?"

"Aye." Quinn grins widely. "You ever play hide n' seek as a young lad? Was a favorite of mine. Me and my brothers would play it every day. Could never find 'em. Used to drive me crazy, that did. 'Course, I found 'em just fine when I really needed to…" He looks away for a moment, as if he's lost in a memory, and then he returns his attention to Damon. "Reckon we can try it out then, hey? You be the seeker, I'll be the hider." The bottle drops the bar with a clatter then and Quinn stands. "How's sunset sound? You find me by then, I leave quietly, you don't. _Well_ …"

He's gone in a flash, and Damon grinds his teeth before he turns and gives pursuit.

The carnage that follows is beyond expectation. As soon as he steps out the door, it seems the breadcrumbs that Quinn is keen to leave behind for Damon to follow is that of bodies. Not all dead, but certainly on their way there. Men and women, all clutching at gaping wounds in their necks and shoulders, spilling blood down their chests, wandering in confusion and hysteria. Damon pushes past them, following the shocked cries of new victims, chasing and running, weaving in and out of homes and shops. And then the trail stops, with a young boy, barely twelve, drenched in blood, his lips parted on a choked gasp as he sputters through his last breaths.

Damon can't tell which direction Quinn went in, but he knows that there are only so many people he is desperate to keep safe.

Carlisle is in town; Damon finds him staunching the blood on a young girl, a few others sitting nearby, eyes glazed and hands holding blood-soaked cloths to their necks.

"Get to Birdie Mae's, check on the others," Carlisle tells him, his face grim. "I'll help as many as I can."

With a quick nod, Damon takes off, adrenaline and worry burning through his veins. The town and trees fly past his vision, a blur of vague activity. Minutes later, he comes to a stumbling stop by the garden. Paula and Birdie Mae are unaware of the trouble inching closer, rather they're bent over together, admiring a patch of bright red strawberries.

"You need to get inside!" he shouts, rushing toward them and taking them each by a hand. "There's a vampire in town, he's killing anything he see—"

He's cut off when he hears a scream, close enough that even Birdie Mae flinches.

Damon feels it in the very pit of his stomach, the devastating certainty that this won't end well. "Get inside, _now_."

He doesn't wait to make sure they follow his direction. Instead, he races around the house and across the field, until he's standing center on the dirt path, worn by wagon wheels and the trampling hooves of horses. He sees Quinn, the whole front of his person damp with blood, grinning gleefully as he holds Sandrea by the throat.

"Ah, ah, ah," he warns, ticking a blood-wet finger from side to side. "Any closer and this pretty little lass—"

Damon bares his teeth in a snarl. "Let her go."

"Oh, do ya hear that? Ya sound a little attached to this one then. Have I struck a _chord_ , Mister Damon?"

Damon's feet eat up much of the space between them quickly, but stops as Quinn's fingers dig in hard enough that his nails tear Sandrea's throat a little, tiny rivulets of blood sliding down her neck in warning.

He seeks her eyes out, only to find tears spilling down her cheeks. " _Damon_ ," she whimpers.

Grinding his teeth, he balls his hands into fists, and tells her, very calmly, "Page seventy-eight."

Her brows draw together for only a second before realization passes over her face. She folds her mouth in a grimace and then turns her eyes toward Quinn. He can see the focus, the sheer determination in her eyes, but what should cause intense pain doesn't seem to affect the vampire at all. Having suffered the pain infliction spell more than once, Damon is surprised, and very confused. Until he spots the necklace Quinn wears, a noticeable lapis lazuli stone hanging from it, and he wonders if perhaps he isn't the only vampire that has befriended a witch. But if he's guarded, if he's safe from Sandrea's powers, then…

Swallowing tightly, Damon tries a different tactic. "Give her to me. If you want the rest of the town, then have it. I won't interfere. But she—"

"She's a pretty one." Quinn's fingers rub at her chin. "Don't ya think?"

His lip curls. "Stop. _Touching_. Her."

"Anybody ever tell ya you're a bit possessive, Damon? Where's the hospitality, hm? I'm new to town, I'm looking for a little fun, and so far all ya've done is get in my way." Quinn's eyes bled black. "I don't take kindly to it."

"I gave you the others. Have your fun. But not _her_."

"Ya fancy her then? Is that what this is?" He laughs, amused. "Is she your sweetheart?"

"She's my _family_." He holds a hand out, and Sandrea responds in kind, letting out a whimper as her fingers stretch toward him. "We'll leave quietly. You have my word. Just—"

"You're boring me, Damon. I don't like to be bored." Quinn raises a brow at him, searches his face a moment. "I had a family too, ya know. My brothers, Eóin and Máirtín. Eóin was always mum's favorite, but Máirtín, he was a trouble maker. Used to blame it all on me though, got away with it every time."

He cocks his head. "I told you, didn't I? We used to play hide n' seek together. Was Máirtín that started it. Used to tell me to go and hide and he'd leave me, for hours he would, and when I'd finally come home, mum would be waiting, mad as hell she was. Used to take the belt to me until there was blood, said it was the only way I'd learn."

He grins, his teeth stained red. "Was right. Lesson doesn't sink in 'til the blood broke free. Eóin and Máirtín know. We played one last game. Only this time, _I_ was the seeker, and I found 'em both. Easier when you can hear their heartbeats, yeah? Found Eóin first. Poor lad couldn't stop crying, begging me to let him go, but that wasn't in the _rules_!"

He shakes Sandrea, who lets out a little shriek of fear, and Damon flinches at the sound.

"I didn't kill him though, not yet. Had to find Máirtín first. And I did. Just followed the scent of piss 'til I found him in a tree. He didn't beg, not at first. But later…" His eyes flicker with excitement, "when he had Eóin's intestines 'round his throat… He begged then. They always do."

Damon knows. He _knows_ there is no bargaining with Quinn. Nothing he can say that will entreat him to act with mercy. So he lunges. He tries to get there in that split second between thought and action. But he's too late.

 _He's too late._

Sandrea's throat is torn open and she's toppling to the ground, her mouth wide in shocked horror. Damon catches her, his knees giving out beneath him. They fall to the ground with her cradled in his lap as she stares up at him from tearful brown eyes, her brow knit tightly.

There is a moment, as clear as day, when he doesn't see the young woman she's become, nineteen with so much potential inside her, but the little girl she once was. The girl who rarely spoke, taking comfort in the quiet. The girl who reached for his hand because he was someone she could always trust. The girl who sat on the bench with him, her legs dangling off the ground, as she picked at her pretty tart. The girl who spoke of everything and everyone having a soul and a purpose.

There was no fear in her then. Her life was stable and comfortable and full of love and family. He wants that little girl back. He wants yesterday, when she sat at the table with her head bent over her notebook, blowing her hair out of her eyes each time it slipped in her way, trying to memorize the exact wording of a spell. He wants an hour ago, when she was unaware that a man like Quinn even existed in the world, innocent and untouched by evil. He wants to hear her laugh and to feel her small fingers curl against his palm. He wants his friend to be okay.

What he gets instead is the distinct sound of air and blood rattling in her lungs, wet and thick. Her hands grappling at his chest, fingers scratching and reaching for something, anything, desperation lining her young, terrified face. Her her lips form his name, a plea, a cry, but no sound escapes her. _Please_ , she mouths. _Please_.

Quinn doesn't run; he stays to watch, to enjoy the fallout. And Damon can't think. He can't do anything. He covers Sandrea's neck, her blood squelching under his fingers, and he meets her scared eyes. "I'm sorry," he chokes out, his vision blurring with tears. Her fingers cover his, squeezing, as she stares back at him. And it's all wrong, it's all so terribly _wrong_.

"No. _No!_ " Birdie Mae is coming toward them, stumbling across the field, screaming from the hollows of her heart. She falls to her knees and pulls Sandrea from his arms, gathering her up against her chest. And Damon watches, _useless_ , as she loses her daughter, as Sandrea's eyes grow empty and distant, her body slumping, lifeless. His heart breaks as Birdie screams, her grief so absolute that he can see her whole body crumbling with it.

Bile crawls up Damon's throat as grief and misery stir his sour stomach.

In the distance, enjoying it all, Quinn begins to clap. "What a show, what a show," he crows. "Really. If I'd known things would be this interesting, I'd've visited sooner."

Damon drags his eyes from Sandrea and Birdie Mae and focuses them on Quinn. The pain is still sharp and clear, like a vervain soaked needle is stabbing at his heart. But there's something more, something darker, rage interwoven with bloodlust. He feels his eyes change, feels the veins throb across his face, and his fangs lengthen.

Quinn's eyes flash with anticipation, but it's short-lived.

Damon is on him, tumbling them both to the ground. The grapple for a time, with Quinn laughing like it's all just part of his game. Maybe in his crazed mind, Damon is like his brothers, and this is all just fun for him. It's not for Damon. He soon pins Quinn to the ground and tears into him like an animal on attack. Skin and blood burrows under his nails, giving way under the vicious clawing of his fingers. His hand sinks inside Quinn and grab hold of his ribs, breaking them, one after the other, until they're sticking out of him like gnarled white fingers.

Quinn wheezes out a pained laugh, choking on blood, his muscles seizing and jumping, but there's no fear, just gleeful insanity.

Damon's hand finds his heart and squeezes, but he doesn't pull it out just yet. He wants Quinn to suffer. He wants him to feel every second of his death, and removing his heart will make it too quick. He thinks about it for a moment, of removing every one of Quinn's organs, of peeling the skin from his body, of setting him on fire only to douse it with vervain water, keep him on the very edge of death for as long as possible. He wants to do it. Wants to break him down and destroy him like he's destroyed Sandrea and her mother.

"Damon?"

It's Paula. Her voice thick with tears. She's watching him, tears on her cheeks, as she holds her dead sister's limp hand. She's afraid, of him or the situation or Quinn, maybe all of it, he can't be sure. But her fear breaks through the haze of his vengeance. It doesn't dilute it, but it brings a moment of clarity, reminds him that he is not _only_ the monster that lives inside him.

So he stares at her a moment, at a rocking, weeping Birdie Mae, too deep in her loss to see or hear anything else. Damon blinks and takes a deep breath. "Go inside, Paula. Take your mother inside."

She stares at him uncertainly, his visage still coiled with evil, and then she nods. She pushes up on shaky legs and pulls at her mother's arm. "Come on, mama. We have to go."

"My baby, my Sandrea," Birdie Mae cries, shaking her head.

Paula closes her eyes a moment, a tear dribbling down her cheek. When she opens them, her hands are out, and she magically moves her mother and her sister across the field, trailing behind her as she walks to the house. She only looks back once, stares a demon in his eyes, and nods.

When she's out of sight, he returns his attention to Quinn. There are many things he considers doing. He could feed him to the very real wolves that live in the forest. He could wait, let Birdie Mae decide how she wants him to suffer. But to do so would add a burden to her soul he doesn't want her to bear. One he's not sure she could reconcile herself with, not completely.

Instead, what he does is tear Quinn's throat out with his teeth, flaying open the skin and ripping out his trachea to spit in the grass. Blood coating his mouth and dripping from his chin, he watches as Quinn chokes and sputters, struggling under him more out of instinct than anything. And then Damon plunges his hand into Quinn's chest and pulls his heart out, _slowly_ , so he feels each aorta and artery as it tears apart. When it's over, and Quinn is little more than a grey, veined husk, he feels no relief. Instead, he falls to the side, drenched in blood, tears biting at his eyes, and he stares above at the sky.

The sun is setting, the day is over, but it will stay with them for years to come.

* * *

Birdie Mae doesn't tell him outright that she blames him, but he knows she does. Truth be told, he'll spend years wondering how different things could have been if he'd only torn Quinn's heart out in the same moment he met him. But he didn't, and now he has to suffer the consequences of his inaction.

Sandrea is buried the next morning. For the first time in a very long time, he sticks to the outskirts of the family, removes himself from their company. He's already compelled the townspeople, at least those who lived, not to remember Quinn as a vampire. The tragedy will hang over the town for some time, but at least they'll continue on unaware of the many supernaturals in their midst.

As soon as Sandrea's body is lowered into the ground, Damon knows he will leave. The regret and blame he feels over her loss is too strong, too absolute, for him to stay. Is it cowardice that drives him even now? he wonders. Possibly. _Probably_. All he knows for certain is that he cannot bear to be there come Wednesday.

He finds Arnett on Birdie Mae's porch. The others are inside, collecting together in quiet mourning. Birdie Mae has taken to her bed. She hasn't spoken much and she's not keen on seeing visitors. Damon gives her the space she wants and steers clear.

"You'll be on your way then?" Arnett asks him, rocking back and forth, pipe in hand.

"For a time," he answers, tucking his hands in the pockets of his pants.

"Expect you'll come back when you're ready…" He takes a drag from his pipe and lets out a cloud of smoke on a sigh. "Don't take too long, hm?"

Damon nods. He looks back to Arnett one last time. "Take care of them."

"Always do."

"Tell Birdie Mae…" He pauses, clenches his teeth. What can he say? An apology offers so little. But he is sorry. He's sorry he was too late, that he wasn't strong enough, that he didn't kill Quinn before he could get to Sandrea, that he hadn't saved Joe or Bellamy or even Emily. He's sorry in every way a person can be.

"She knows."

Damon swallows tightly, and then he takes a step forward, off the porch, and begins his trek toward the road. He's not sure where he's headed, stumbling through the dark is likely, but he hopes, eventually, the light might find him again. If he so deserves it.

* * *

 **author's note** : _poor sandrea. i really liked writing her. sadly, she was doomed from the start. some people have been wondering what triggers a darker damon, what pushes him toward that edge that we see in him in present time, and this has a great deal to do with it. we see damon walking a line of being good and kind and sort of feeding off the nature of the witches to be who he thinks he should be. but every once in a while, we see that vampire nature rear its ugly head and damon has to ask himself who he is and how much of him is more monster than man. there's a balance that needs to be found, but there's also pieces of damon that he slowly picks up along the way. things he does and sees that help him figure out who he wants to be and how far he's willing to go in order to protect those he loves. he doesn't want a repeat of quinn and sandrea. so he has to figure out a way to make sure it can never happy again._

 _thank you all so much for your reviews. i'm so happy to see you're enjoying this! i hope this chapter was satisfactory. i planned to get two up, but then expanded on this, so the next one needs some more revamping before it goes up, hopefully wednesday, maybe thursday. please try to leave a review! they're my lifeblood._

 _thank you,_

\- **lee | fina**


	5. privilege

**warning(s)** : period-typical racism (discussion of lynching) ; sexual content ; violence  
 **word count** : 8,901  
 **summary** : Damon's never been one to consider the consequences, so when his cowardice causes the demise of his first love, he'll do anything to make it right. Including making a deal with a witch. [reincarnation fic]

* * *

 **V.**

 ** _1904_**

Damon spends a few months searching for Stefan. He's not sure why, or what he'll do when he finds him, but there's a strange sense of anger that fills his search. The only one he knew to be as brutal as Quinn was Stefan. Perhaps it is answers he seeks, understanding for the demon that entered his life and turned it on its head so quickly. While his brother did nothing wrong, at least not in this case, Damon can't help but feel resentment toward him, toward the monster he became when he was turned.

Was Quinn like him? Was he a good man when he was a human, but evil incarnate when he turned? It doesn't matter. Damon still had Quinn's blood on his hands. Could still hear the crack of his ribs as he broke each one. Would his brother have approved? Joined Quinn in his chaotic slaughtering? Or perhaps he's cured now; a whole new man. He doubts it.

He switches tactics part way through his search and instead begins looking for Alexia. Perhaps she is the key to not only finding Stefan, but understanding him. She was so willing to stay behind, to help him see who he really was, to return him to the man behind the monster. Was it really that easy? Were they separate? Was Damon truly all that different from his brother or Quinn?

He'd killed. Stalked and murdered defenseless people and _bathed_ in their blood. Despite the comfort he takes in staying with the Bennetts, he finds joy in blood, in the way skin gives under his teeth, in how sweet blood can taste when a victim is overcome with fear and adrenaline. He is a _predator_. The monster that children fear may live under their beds or in their closets. The chill that wanders down a person's spine as night blankets them. He is the chilly breath of death on the nape of their necks.

Perhaps he is fooling himself in this bid for control and comprehension. Perhaps one day it will be _he_ who feeds on a Bennett neck, making a meal of the very people he's meant to protect. Perhaps _he_ is their enemy, hiding in plain sight.

The idea curdles his stomach. The very notion that he might have their blood on his hands, in his mouth, coating his teeth, filling his belly. He vomits in the street, a foamy pink that drips from his dried lips. He's hungry, confused, conflicted, and awash in guilt and grief.

Grabbing the first person to walk by the mouth of the alley he stands in, he tears into their neck and slakes his hunger. But the grief remains, flowing through his veins like a slow-acting poison. He leaves his victim in his vomit and returns to his search. He won't go home, not until he has the answers he seeks.

* * *

The dreams are the worst. The terrible recollection of the moment where Sandrea was killed plays repeatedly in his mind. It wakes him in a cold sweat, the clawing feeling of grief and shame stirring his stomach. There is a body in the tub, decaying; life has long fled from them, their blood providing a short lived respite. Damon cannot find it in him to dispose of the body, or to hunt for another.

Bottles litter the floor and he stinks of regret and failure. There are days when he wants nothing more than to pull the ring from his finger, throw the curtains wide, and greet the sun as his final farewell.

He can hear Sandrea's laughter in his ears, feel her fingers coiling around his as they walk toward town, see the delighted look on her face as she cradles a new tart in her hand. Just as clearly, he can see the moment she knows she is going to die. Can see her face twisted in terror and pain. Feel her fingers clawing at his chest as she struggles to survive.

And Quinn. Laughing, clapping, delighted with the aftermath of his actions.

Damon feels rage burn up inside him, growing enough that it begins to swamp the grief, to overcome it. He topples the bed to its side, tears the pictures from the walls, overturns the dresser, and kicks at the bottles until they shatter, covering the floor in shards of glass. He stands in the centre of the chaos, breathing hard, shaking from head to toe, his anger still a candle wick, waiting for the right flame.

Perhaps it is not his brother or answers he needs to be searching for, but a solution. A way to combat the Quinn's and Stefan's of the world. A way to protect the others from an end like Sandrea's.

* * *

 _Dear Stefan,_

 _It is with regret that I write to tell you that I have searched for you and was not able to find you. I must confess that in finding you, I was not sure that my actions would have been kind. I know not what my intentions were, exactly. I can postulate that I may have been using you as stand in for the target of my true rage. Or perhaps it was only answers to questions you could not rightly know the truth to. In the end, my wrath was not your doing, not in this respect. It was myself that I should have directed it at all along._

 _I have failed. When my duty was never more necessary, I failed. Perhaps father was right all along. He had no reason to believe I could amount to more than what little I did, and it seems I am continuing the tradition. Emily asked so little of me, and still I am unable to do as she requested._

 _I had thought it a miracle once. That time was what would hurt the most. Waiting for the moment where I might have Bonnie back in my arms; that my life might finally resume; that she would find peace in living a life she deserved. But it's not time I fear now. It's attachment. I have watched these people grow. I have delivered them into life. I've heard their first words and witnessed their first steps. I have held their hands as they walk toward the unknown, and I have promised to shield them from whatever lay there. But I lied. I gave them false promises, false hope, a false person in whom to believe in._

 _Sandrea was so young, Stefan. She still had so much more life to live. The world had scarcely seen what she could do. She was so smart and kind and good. She didn't deserve what was done to her. I held her in my arms. I heard her heart stop. I felt her blood beneath my fingers. And she looked to me for help, to save her, to do something, anything, and I could do nothing. My failures, my inability to act, my benevolence to a stranger I knew to be as we are, is just as much to blame as the hand that tore the life from her very throat._

 _I thought I could do this. I thought it so simple once. To stand at a distance and watch the Bennetts grow and live and die. But I know their faces like the imprints of one's fingers. They are each their own person and they have each carved out a place for themselves inside me. I cannot rid their existence from myself. But I can rid them of myself._

 _The vampire that took Sandrea was a monster. The carnage left in his wake has scarcely been seen since the aftermath of your own turning. I won't let another close enough to repeat these actions. I will find a way to protect them even if it means that I too must keep my distance. As maybe there is no greater monster than the man who could not save them._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Damon Salvatore_

* * *

 ** _1905_**

If Damon can't understand the nature of the beast, then he decides will find a way to make sure it never gets so close again.

His first thought is vampire repelling spells. There were none in the Bennett grimoire, but perhaps another witch had been successful in creating some kind of ward to keep vampires at bay. Not just from a house, but from an entire town. Or, perhaps just a person themselves, a way to magically discourage a vampire from getting too close to them. He understands it might keep him away too, and though it hurts, he's willing to keep his distance if it means that no one like Quinn will ever get near them again.

What he finds instead is Theodora.

After much searching, Damon finds himself deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where a lone cabin sits in wait. Damon is not unfamiliar with the sight. In fact, it reminds him of Gemma's home at first. The oak trees are a lush green, thick with leaves and life. The trees offer sanctuary to the cabin, small shafts of moonlight reaching through densely coupled leaves to scatter along the forest floor. Smoke billows from the chimney and the wind rocks a chair on the porch. There's a pit dug nearby, surrounded by rocks, and Damon briefly thinks of the old tales of witches and cauldrons and cackling echoing in the shadows.

Damon approaches slowly, listening for any sign of the witch. It's taken him months to track her down. She's spoken about in whispers, people casting looks over their shoulders, as if they expect the mere whisper of her name will conjure her wrath. So far as he can tell, Theodora is the oldest living witch around, which means she'll have more than enough knowledge to share, if she feels so inclined.

He's nearly to the porch before the door opens, the wood creaking as it slowly parts. He can't make a figure out, just the low burning logs in a stone fireplace. Wind chimes knock together, sending an eerie, lilting song along the wind, and Damon feels icy fingers drum down his spine.

"Come or go, but choose quick," a rough voice stresses.

He pauses only a moment, looking back the way he came. The dark woods have clouded with an ominous fog, bidding him forward. It would be easy to run, to forget he'd ever begun this journey, but he's so close…

Gathering up his courage, he walks forward, climbing the creaking stairs to the porch, and pauses at the threshold of the door.

"You was invited already," she reminds him from the depths of the cabin, still unseen.

He hesitates a second longer, but finally slides his foot through and follows it. His eyes wander the room, searching her out. He hears rattling, like metal scratching metal, but it's coming from no distinct direction. Just a noise, echoing in his ears. There's shuffling then, fabric on wood, slippers perhaps, but no feet to fill them.

"Damon Salvatore…" she says, drawing his name out, good and long. "I heard about you."

"You have?" He raises a brow, frowning. "From whom?"

"The vampire that spends his time with witches… Protector of the Bennett line…" Her voice wavers from one ear to the next, making his eyes dart, still searching for some sign of where she is. "Done mixed yourself with old magic, thinkin' to bring back your _love_ …" Her tongue coils around the last word with disdain. " _Predictable_." The door slams closed behind him

"This isn't about Bonnie," he tells her, grinding his teeth.

"No?" she sounds amused, and unconvinced. "In't everything with you?"

He shakes his head. "I have a duty to the Bennetts, I—"

"Duty," she repeats, humming. "To protect the Bennett line… How many you lost then?"

He swallows tightly. "Three," he admits, turning his eyes up for a moment. "Joe, Bellamy, and San…" His voice wavers a moment, and he coughs to clear his throat. "Sandrea."

"Don't sound like duty," she muses. "Sound like _misery_."

"I came here because—"

"I know why you come. I know why they all come… _Power_."

He frowns, shaking his head. "I don't want power."

"Don'chu?" A flicker of a shadow passes his eyes, a blur of gold and brown, but it's gone before he can lock his gaze on it. "Power to keep your Bennetts safe. To make sure nobody come for 'em, hurt 'em, take 'em from ya."

His brow furrows. "You can do that?"

"I can do a great many things…" Suddenly, she's right there, standing in front of him. Her lips painted black and her amber eyes peering up at him, dark pupils shot wide. "Life, death, power… When you got 'em all, ain't nothin' that can touch you."

He stares down at her. She barely reaches his chin, her hair in locs of different lengths, framing a face that's too young for her age and history. "Is there a way to keep vampires away from the Bennetts? A charm or spell, something that will keep them safe?"

"Ain't just vampires to guard against. But you know that…" Her eyes narrow at him. "Vampire that plays with wolves…"

"I wouldn't call it 'playing.'" His lips purse. "We're… _cordial_."

She grins at him, all teeth, and there's something fierce about it despite a distinct lack of fangs. "Against nature you are. Company you keep, magic you play with, path you walk…" She eyes him curiously and reaches a hand up to drag a finger from his forehead down to the slope of his nose, just between his eyes. "Instincts always tellin' you to run, but you wanna stay, wanna fight, don't you, cowardly lion, hm?" She laughs under her breath, a raspy gurgle from her chest, and steps back, making her way into the room, the fabric of her tattered dress dragging on the floor behind her.

He follows after her, wary but unwilling to run now. "You never answered my question."

"You asked the wrong one," she tells him, shrugging her shoulders high as she smiles.

He frowns. "There has to be a way to keep them safe."

Nodding, her eyes are wide as she stares at him, and leans against the back of a chair.

Impatient, he sighs. "Why don't you just tell me what I need to do or say?"

"Ain't that easy." She nods her chin toward another chair and waits for him to take a seat before she skirts around her own and lowers herself into it, crossing her legs rather daintily, despite the holes and tears in her time-worn clothes. "Why you wanna keep 'em safe?"

"I made a promise—"

She snarls, gritting her teeth at him.

He pauses, turns his gaze to the floor. "Because. What happened to Sandrea… It wasn't right. I couldn't save her. I couldn't… It was my _fault_. I should have killed him. If I'd just—"

"Guilt ain't no way to love. It eats at the heart, turns it to _rot_." Her eyes narrow as she tips her head. "What I tell you? Life, death, power, that's what keeps you safe."

"I told you, I don't want it for myself. I want it for _them_."

"Who keeps 'em safe? Who protects 'em? _You do_." She leans forward, her eyes flashing with excitement. "Life. Death. Power."

Damon shakes his head. "So your answer is that I just _believe_ in myself?" He sighs, shaking his head. "This was a mistake, clearly." He moves to stand from his seat, but suddenly finds her in front of him, her hand gripping tight to his arm. Her previously amber eyes swirl a pale blue color.

" _Life_." She presses a hand to his heart, and he feels it thump in his chest. " _Death_." A chill runs over his skin. " _Power_." He feels it like a crackling in his veins, a fire splitting them open and spreading throughout him. But it doesn't hurt, not exactly, it just tingles, a strange awareness that flows through him. "Bury your guilt, vampire… Won't do you no good."

He stares up at her, his brow furrowed. "What did you do to me?"

She grins toothily. "Found ya courage."

"What—?"

She laughs, her head falling back, and just as quickly as she was there, she's gone, turning to a mist that evaporates before his eyes. But her laughter echoes, her voice still lilts through the room, a whisper of sound that curls inside his ear.

"Go home, Damon. Do your duty…"

He stands from the chair, smoothing a hand down his shirt. "The Bennetts…?"

"Some things, you can't fight, but the ones you can…" He feels a rush of wind at his back. "They'll learn…"

"Learn what?"

"You got power in you, vampire." He feels it flood his veins again. "Time comes, you be ready."

"For what?"

"You'll know."

He frowns. "Do you always—" He blinks, and when his eyes open, he's standing in the woods, surrounded by fog. There is no cabin to be seen. Just a pit in the ground, filled with dying embers. "—speak in riddles," he finishes.

He gets no reply, not from her at least. A crow caws from a branch above, and Damon looks up, catches sight of it, before it flares its wings and takes off into the night. He turns his attention back to the pit for a long moment, but when nothing changes, he starts toward the trees. He's not sure what happened, or what he's gained, but there's something inside him, ingrained in his blood. He feels… _stronger_. Braver, than he ever has before. Perhaps it was a parlor trick, or perhaps not. What he does know is that it's time.

Time to go home. Time to face his mistakes. Time to ask for forgiveness.

And so he does.

Behind him, unseen, Theodora sits on a rocking chair, a crow perched on her forearm. Eying the bird, she clucks her tongue, "Don't look at me like that… Did right… Some people just need to hear the right thing, need to believe they got a little magic in 'em." She nods. "He got a long road ahead of him… Mmhmm… Not easy neither. But worth it. Gonna shape him way he needs to be shaped. Learn him some things. And when he's ready…" She smiles. "Then things get interestin'."

Her feathered companion caws at her, and Theodora laughs.

"You watch… You'll see." She nods. " _You'll see_."

Rustling its wings, the crow takes one last look at her, and then it takes off, giving chase to a vampire who walks unaware of his audience, or the future waiting for him.

* * *

 ** _1906_**

He visits Carlisle first. He's not ready to see Birdie Mae just yet, but Carlisle welcomes him with the same peace and quiet he always has. There is no judgment in Carlisle's presence. He simply nods in greeting. Where the other Bennett homes have always been loud, full of life and children and noise, Carlisle's has always been comfortably quiet. It takes getting used to, since silence in Damon's childhood home always felt chilly, bereft of the comforts family can provide. His father's doing, he supposes. While Carlisle's home is quiet enough to hear every small sound, it's not cold. Perhaps it's because they've known each other for forty-some years, but it doesn't feel as if they need to fill the air with empty words.

Carlisle doesn't ask where he's been, if he's back for good, he simply lets the peace settle in. They don't talk much. They sit on the porch and share a pipe between them, letting the day run itself out. He's sure his mother would have called Carlisle an _old soul_. After all he's seen and been through, there's an unspoken grief about him. Life has been long and Carlisle has felt all too much of it.

Eventually, when the mood is particularly melancholy, Carlisle tells a story. In the past, when Damon would visit, they were often memories of his childhood, of growing up with Emily or with his uncle. They're good stories; happy for the most part. The rage of what's been lost, what is so often taken from him and those like him, is a flare behind his eyes, a candle wick that's always lit, but dims as he ages, as justice seems an impractical dream. Today's story is a little different.

"There was an old apple tree out by your house," Carlisle says, watching the sun set in the distance, smoke pluming from his nostrils. "Used to steal as much as I could, tuck it in my shirt, bring it home for mama to make us something sweet to eat. Always worried I'd get caught, but I never let it stop me. Could'a lived off those pies..."

He smiles to himself, ducking his eyes as he remembers. "Was a cold morning in July when she caught me. Grabbed my wrist and yanked me clear out the tree… Miss Bonnie was a fierce one. She gave me a good shake, told me I was being reckless and better count my lucky stars that it was her who caught me and nobody else."

He chuckles then, and shakes his head. "I was scared witless, went running home, thought mama was gonna beat me blue for it. But mama never did, never said one word. I stayed away from your house, from the tree, just in case. And then a few days passed and there was a knock at the door. Miss Bonnie was standing there and I thought for sure she'd come to rat me out. I was ready to run, thought I'd have to hide in the fields so mama wouldn't catch me. But Miss Bonnie just held out a basket instead, full to the top with apples. 'You need something, you _ask_ me,' she said. 'Apple pie ain't worth losing your neck over.' I about cried then. Whether 'cause I wasn't gonna get in trouble or 'cause I was gonna get pie, I don't rightly know."

Damon laughs lightly. "Sounds like Bonnie."

"She was a good person, I remember that. When we ran outta apples, I'd go out and see her, ask her real nice if she had a few to spare. She'd sit me down in the kitchen, give me something to eat while she got together another basket… Yeah, she was a real good person."

Damon nods, sitting back in his own chair. "Sandrea… She reminded me of Bonnie. Stubborn, smart, loved her sweets…" He licks his dry lips and feels his heart constrict. "I _tried_ … I tried to save her."

"Nobody thinks you didn't. We know you loved her, just like you loved all of us. You run when it gets too hard, when you think you failed us, but… We never ask you to. Never tell you to get gone. Only person blamin' you is _you_."

Damon's gaze falls to the porch then, his brow knit. "I deserve the blame."

"You lost her too. Think your grief might just outweigh the blame."

"Maybe." His voice is little more than a whisper, the weight of it all pressing heavy on his chest.

"You got a long life ahead of you, Damon. You're gonna lose a lot of us on the way. Best get right with it now."

Damon turns to him, nods slowly, but adds, "Not like this. Never like this."

Carlisle hums, but says nothing to argue.

And so the day falls quiet once more, bleeding into night, the sound of crickets growing in the distance. Sometimes there's nothing more to say.

* * *

"Mama wants to know if you ever plan on comin' home..."

Damon looks over abruptly, spots Paula at the edge of the bench. "She sent you to ask?"

Paula shakes her head, ringlets bouncing at her shoulders. "She keeps setting a place at the table for you. Keeps lookin' out the window, see if you're on your way… Uncle Carlisle said you were draggin' your feet."

"I suppose I am," he admits.

"You think she blames you?" Paula sits on the bench then and shuffles herself a little closer. "For what happened to Sandrea."

His throat tightens. "She has every right to."

"I don't."

He turns his gaze to her. "No?"

Her head shakes before she leans forward, balancing her elbows on her knees and her chin in her palms. "I wanted to. I wanted to _hate_ you."

He flinches.

"Mama always said you'd be there to keep us safe, and you always was. You saved Matthew from the lake, when he almost drowned. And Sandrea said when she was little, she started a fire by accident, and you helped her, even told mama it was your fault. You were always there. When I'd have bad dreams, you'd make 'em better. When I hurt my ankle 'cause I was playing on the wagon when I shouldn't'a been, you were there, made me feel better." She shrugs. "I think, if you could'a, you would'a saved Sandrea from the vampire."

Swallowing tightly, he nods. "I would never willingly let any of you be hurt."

Turning to look up at him, she raises a brow. "So how come you're hiding?"

"I'm not… _hiding_."

She rolls her eyes. "You think mama's mad at you, so you ran away. I used to do that too, when I was little."

His mouth turns up faintly. "Well, I'm not little, and I'm not hiding. I just… thought she might prefer I keep my distance."

"I think she misses you."

"Really?"

"Mmhmm. Like how she misses Aunt Gemma 'cause she lives so far away."

Damon hums.

"So...?"

He looks to her curiously.

Paula shoves off the bench to stand and holds a hand out to him. "You comin'?"

A well of emotion thickens in his throat. He stands from the bench and takes Paula's hand. She smiles up at him, and steps forward, pulling him along with her, all the while chattering about everything he's missed. She hardly pauses to take a breath, and only lets go of his hand when she climbs the stairs to the porch.

The door opens at the same time and Birdie Mae steps out to see him, looking him over quickly.

"Go on inside Paula," she tells her daughter, waving her through the door.

Paula looks back at him once, and smiles encouragingly, before she hurries off toward the kitchen.

The tension is thick, and Damon feels a slew of words clog in his throat. "I—"

"You had me scared," Birdie Mae interrupts him. "Ain't no way for me to find you when you go off like that."

He swallows thickly, his gaze falling to the porch. "I didn't mean—"

"I was angry. Had every right to be too." She nods quickly, wringing her hands. "Lost my daughter, Damon. Lost my little girl."

He blinks quickly, nodding.

"When mama asked you to keep us safe, I think you all had some idea what that was. But there's a lot more hurt out there than you think. Different _kinds_ of hurt." She licks her lips and shakes her head. "I _needed_ you. Not to save Sandrea, 'cause Lord knows you tried. You loved her. I know you did. I never thought different. But I needed you here to help me _live_. I woke up every morning and I didn't _want_ to. I was so tired, I wanted to go to sleep and never _move_ again. I needed my _friend_ , Damon."

He raises his eyes to meet hers and sees they're just as damp as his own.

"You wanna protect us, you wanna keep us safe, then quit runnin' away when things get hard. Quit blamin' yourself for what you can't save us from. I don't need you to fight every vampire that ever comes through town. But I sure as _hell_ need you around. Some days are hard and it ain't got nothing to do with whether we got enemies outside. Sometimes the enemy is _us_. Protecting us don't always mean fighting, it means holding our hands and helpin' us over the bumps in the road."

She stares at him searchingly, and then holds a hand out, even as it shakes. "You think you can do that?"

He nods jerkily, and reaches out, taking her hand in his. She tugs on it, and he walks up the steps to gather her in a hug. Burying his face at her shoulder, he grips her tightly. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'll be better."

"Don't want no apologies." She squeezes him. "Just _be_ here."

Closing his eyes, he nods, and they stand there a few minutes longer, just holding each other up.

Eventually, Birdie Mae sniffs and unties her arms from him. She wipes at her face and then smooths her hands down the apron she's wearing. "Wash up, you can help me with supper," she tells him, before she turns on her heel and walks inside the house.

He watches her go, and lingers a moment longer on the porch. But then, very slowly, he steps forward and into the house.

Catharsis, as always, is found more with the Bennetts than without.

* * *

Remy appears just as Damon's wandering through a clearing, as if he knew Damon was coming and was waiting for him. He raises a brow, half-smiling in greeting. "You've been gone a while."

"Have you missed me?" Damon asks, a faint tilt to his lips.

"Ailish has been asking after you… wondering where you got to."

Damon nods, mouth set grimly. "I'll find her."

"You look like you need to talk," Remy notes. "We kept an eye on Birdie Mae after Sandrea's passing. Ailish tried to help out around the house; she and Paula seem to get on well."

"Good. I…" He clears his throat. "Thank you, for being there when I couldn't."

"You've done plenty for my pack, we were happy to help yours."

"How is your pack?" Damon wonders. He can hear them nearby, seeming in good spirits.

"They're well. Restless with the upcoming moon, but in good health."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it."

Remy hums, and then reaches out to clap Damon's shoulder. "You look like you have a burden you'd like to relieve."

Drawing a deep breath, Damon lets it out on a sigh. "Some days I wonder why Emily entrusted her family to me… Why she ever thought I could protect them."

"You blame yourself, for what happened to Sandrea."

"If I'd just killed Quinn when I first saw him—"

"You have the sight now, Damon? You can see the future? Be a handy trick, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe it's not a matter of knowing what's to come. Maybe I should just expect the worst."

"Doesn't sound like any way to live." Remy takes a seat on an overturned tree, elbows resting on his knees. "I won't lie. There are more Quinn's out there than I want to think about. Much as it chagrins me to admit, there are werewolves like him too. And humans. We aren't all good, not all evil either. We just learn to live with it, fight it when it comes, survive every other day."

"I don't want them to just survive. I want them to _thrive_."

Remy plucks a piece of tall reaching grass and rubs it between his fingers. "Then what are you going to do to make sure they do?"

Well, that was the question, wasn't it? What lengths was he willing to go to?

* * *

Damon doesn't find Ailish. She finds him.

It's early morning, the sun slowly rising in the distance, when she appears next to him on the porch. Her hair is still a tangle of dark curls, and, with a wrinkle of his nose, he knows she hasn't bathed in some time. But her eyes are bright and her face is happy, so he bites back any words that might rid her of her smile.

"You been gone a while," she says, quiet and short.

"I have. I'm back now."

"For how long?"

He raises an eyebrow down at her. "I never planned to leave in the first place," he admits. "There were… unforeseen circumstances."

"Sandrea got killed." Her words aren't meant to hurt, more a statement than anything, but he feels the loss as sharply as if it just happened, and his heart clenches tightly in his chest.

Ailish's chin falls to her chest. "Sorry. Mama says I need to be nicer."

"Perhaps just less exact in your wording," he suggests. "I was accused of being mean when I was your age, but I was… different. I lashed out and pushed others away so they couldn't hurt me."

"Did you get hurt a lot?"

He thinks of his mother's death, his father's constant judgment and rejection, the praise heaped on Stefan while he could never do anything right…

Clearing his throat, he admits, "More than I'd like."

"What'd you do? You hurt 'em back?"

"There were times I wanted to. Times I did, in any way I was able. And other times, I simply accepted that it was my lot in my life." He sits back in his seat then, his brow furrowed. "Enough about me. How have you been since I've been gone?"

Ailish shrugs and slumps back in her own chair. "I made friends with Paula. I like her. She's real nice." She chews her lip then. "Papa says it ain't right. That I shouldn't be friends with Paula or you neither."

Damon hums. "What do you think?"

Her small face scrunches up then and her eyes flash fiercely. "I'm a wolf! And wolves do whatever they want!"

He grins then. That's one way to take on the world. He supposes he could learn a thing or two from Ailish.

* * *

There are nights when he can hear Birdie Mae crying herself to sleep. Other nights when he can hear her in the throes of a nightmare, Sandrea's name a cry on her lips. He wonders if the grief will always cling to her, like a shroud that only she can see and feel, heavy on her shoulders.

Some nights, when her tossing and turning prove fruitless, she climbs from her bed and makes herself a pot of tea. He joins her then, in the quiet of her kitchen. He holds her hand across the rough wood tabletop, rubs his thumb over her knuckles.

"I can hear her laughing sometimes," she admits. "It's crystal clear, like she's right beside me. I'll turn to see it, but when I look she ain't there…"

"When my mother died, weeks went by and I could still hear her in the house. Her favorite songs on the piano, the sound of her voice from the library, the soft way she'd say my name, how her fingers felt when she'd brush my hair from my face… And, at the time, I didn't like it. That feeling of disappointment when I realized that it couldn't possibly be her. But later, when I stopped hearing her, that was much worse somehow. The quiet seemed so much more stifling then."

"Wasn't right, what happened." She grips the collar of her nightgown tightly, fingers splayed over her throat. "I can't get right with it. Can't—Can't forgive God for what he _took_." She shakes her head, her eyes closed a moment as she struggles to contain the sob trapped in her throat. "A part of me… It wants to raze the earth. Wants to destroy every _good_ thing I see so it can look like I feel. And I know that ain't right. I know that's just my hurt talking. But I'm so _angry_ …" She grits her teeth as a tear falls. "I just wanna know _why_. How come I lost my mama? How come I had to lose Joe and Bellamy too? And now _Sandrea?_ " Her hand squeezes around his. "She was my little girl, Damon. She was just a _baby_."

He nods, because he can't do much else, and he lets her squeeze at his hand until the bones strain under the pressure. "You have every right to be upset. To rage at God or me or whoever."

She opens her eyes then, and raises them to meet his, searching his face. "Did you miss her when you ran? Did you think about her? Or did you try and hide from it? Try and bury it in blood?"

He licks his lips as his eyes fall. "I thought of her every day. I _missed_ her every day. And I have spent every moment since she was lost asking myself how I could have saved her. What I could have done differently…" He shakes his head. "I still go to the baker's on Wednesdays. I pick out the prettiest tart they have, and I sit on the bench we used to share..." He raises his gaze to hers then, his own eyes brimming with tears. "I will carry Sandrea with me for the rest of my life, Birdie, I promise you."

Her mouth trembles before she breaks, and then she's crying and pulling at him, and he stands to hug her, to hold her as she falls apart. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that she breaks down. Sometimes she fights. Sometimes she pushes and shoves and slaps him, lashing out at the only one she can, and he takes it. He stands and accepts what anger and blame she can give him. But in the end, she also leans on him, lets him hold her up and carry her and share in her grief. That is all he can ask for.

* * *

 ** _1908_**

Lizabelle is giving him the silent treatment.

"Have I not made enough apologies for not bringing you a trinket?" he sighs.

She frowns at him, and then returns her attention to her book, her brow puckered and her fingers swiping the pages with more vigor than necessary.

"Perhaps it's not that I didn't bring you a trinket then, hm? Maybe it's that I didn't write, or visit for some time… Is that what has you bothered?" He watches her, noticing how her chin ducks down against her chest. "I was only trying to be closer to Birdie Mae, to make up for the time we lost after Sandrea… I owed it to her. That doesn't mean I didn't miss you."

She shifts in her chair, giving him her back, and he sighs.

"If you need time, you'll have it. I'm not leaving for a while, so when you're ready to forgive me, I'll be here." He stands from his seat then. "I'm going to find Ernestine. I think she's feeding the pigs."

Lizabelle doesn't answer, but he sees a little nod of her head from the corner of his eye. Smiling to himself, Damon makes his way outside.

Ernestine is sitting on a fence post, a bucket in her lap as she throws feed out for the chickens. Behind her, the pigs are eagerly eating from their trough. Sidestepping the pecking hens, Damon leans against the fence beside Ernestine, who grins at him in greeting.

"Liza's mad at you," she sing-songs.

"I noticed. But you aren't?"

She shrugs. "Mama says you always come back, so there ain't no sense missing you."

Damon grins. "Your mother is a smart woman." He spots Gemma across the way, tending to the horses.

"Liza will come around," Ernestine tells him, before hopping off the post to land on her feet. "You just gotta let her know you'll come back."

Reaching over, Damon ruffles her already messy hair. "Sage advice, young lady."

Puffing up a little, she smiles at him. "If I ask momma, will you come riding with me?"

"If Gemma says it's all right, I'd be happy to accompany you."

Squealing happily, Ernestine runs off then, nearly tripping over a few chickens as she goes, waving a hand at their squawking behind her. He listens as she tugs at Gemma's dress and pleads with her to let him take her riding. Gemma looks over at him, a brow raised, to which he merely shrugs.

He keeps his gaze on Ernestine and Gemma, but from the corner of his eyes, he can see Lizabelle is watching from the window. He'll gain her forgiveness yet, just in her own sweet time.

* * *

Lizabelle and Ernestine have long gone to bed when Damon sits in front of the fire, nursing a glass or bourbon.

Gemma sits across from him, writing diligently in her journal, her chair rocking gently.

"Do you remember when those rippers were banished to the 1903 prison world?" he wonders.

"Hard to forget." She finishes her sentence before she raises her eyes to meet his. "This got to do with Sandrea?"

"When Quinn killed her, he reminded me of something… of _someone_."

She hums, waiting for him to elaborate.

"When I was turned, so was my brother, Stefan."

"You wouldn't let us come to the house," she remembers, nodding. "Arnett said you was worried your brother might hurt us."

"He didn't have the control I did. He was… an animal. He tore apart everybody he met. His appetite for blood was insatiable. But it was more than that. Sometimes he would play with the bodies, move them like they were dolls. It was insane, certainly, but more than that, it was nothing like the Stefan I knew. Stefan was compassionate and kind."

"Most rippers are when they're human. All that compassion doesn't know what to do with the hunger and the killing, so they snap, destroy everything they touch. You think your brother was one?"

"I do." He frowns. "Is there a way to… bring them back? To make them more like other vampires, like me?"

Gemma sits back, her forehead wrinkled with thought. "Ain't no way to change 'em. That's why we sent the others to the prison world. But I heard that some learn different. Fight their nature somehow."

"Fight it?"

"Live off animal blood, fight the thirst, keep they're humanity turned on."

"They can do that?"

"Takes more work. Gotta fight their instinct more than most. Not just anybody can do it."

He thinks of Alexia then, promising she'll help Stefan find his way again, and he wonders if she did, if she was capable, if Stefan had that kind of strength in him.

"Doesn't seem fair though, do it?"

"Hm?" He raises a curious brow.

"That the real good ones, the ones that care too much, are the ones that gotta suffer more."

He frowns, nodding. "No. No, it isn't fair."

* * *

"Papa doesn't come home like he says."

Damon looks up at the sound of her voice, and finds Lizabelle standing by a tree, leaning against it as she stares at the ground. She kicks at the dirt and refuses to meet his eyes.

"He's working, that's all," he tells her. "It's hard, being away from you, I'm sure of it."

She shrugs, pushing off the tree to walk toward where he's sitting on the stairs leading up to the porch. "Mama says he loves us and it ain't our fault none, but I think she's wrong. If he really loved us, he'd come back."

"Is this why you were upset before? Because of your father?"

"Because of you too. You leave and you don't write or visit and that ain't right. Family's are supposed to stick together."

Drawing a deep breath, he nods. "You're right. It was wrong of me to run away. You didn't deserve that."

She nods, still frowning.

He takes a moment to consider what he wants to say, before eventually rubbing his hands on the knees of his pants. "When I was your age, my father used to ignore me. Even when we were in the same room, he'd simply pretend he was too busy, or that he hadn't noticed I was there. It used to… I would get very upset and wonder what I'd done wrong. I spent a lot of my childhood asking myself that question. What did _I_ do that upset him, and how could I fix it? But the truth of it was, I hadn't done anything wrong. My father wasn't a good man. He was harsh and judgmental and he treated me like I wasn't worth his time or energy. But if there was one thing that he taught me, it was what _not_ to be."

He reaches for her then, taking her small hand in his. "I ran away after Sandrea died because I was scared. My job was to protect her and I failed. I thought everyone would blame me for it. That I would be rejected from the family and made to feel like my father once had. So I fled before anybody could turn me away. And I told myself that it was the right thing to do, that I would find a way to make it up to each of you, but the truth is that I can be very cowardly, Lizabelle. And I regret that. I regret that I hurt you to protect myself. Do you understand?"

She nods, biting her lip a moment, before she looks up at him. "I was scared too."

"You were?"

"I thought you'd go away like papa did and you wouldn't come back. I thought you left us too."

"I will _always_ come back." He squeezes her hand. "I might get scared, but that fear will never mean that I don't care."

"How come you can't fight it though? When you're scared, all you gotta do is pretend you aren't and face what's got you scared. And if you keep doing it, then one day you ain't gonna be scared no more."

He smiles gently, and chucks her chin. "I think you're right."

"So you will? You'll fight?"

"Until my dying breath."

She nods then, and turns to rest her head against his shoulder. "I accept your apology," she tells him solemnly.

And he smiles to himself. "I appreciate that."

* * *

Arnett dies in the winter, at the ripe old age of 78.

Damon is there; he sits with him, listens to him share memories and stories, regrets and triumphs.

"You'll take care of 'em," Arnett says, his voice a deep rasp. "Them and they're babies and grandbabies. You take care of all of 'em, you hear me?"

Damon nods. "I will."

He lets out a relieved sigh. "Emily chose right. She knew what was comin' for her and she made the right decision, pickin' you to keep watch over our line. I wasn't sure at first, thought she was puttin' too much faith in a man that ain't got enough spine to keep his head on his shoulders. But you proved me wrong."

His throat tightened. "Not so sure about that… What happened to Joe and Bellamy, to Sandrea, I—"

Arnett waves a hand to stop him before he can get going. "All your years, and you still ain't learned it yet."

"Learned what?"

"Dying is a privilege, Damon. One you skipped over, one that'll haunt you the rest of your long life. I ain't sayin' that them children didn't deserve a longer life, they did. But death, it comes for us all at some point. It's part of nature, part of life; we live, we die, and so on. I'm an old man, seen what I had to see, done what I had to do. Got my sisters waitin', my wife and my little girl, my niece and my nephew, all there on the other side. This ain't a sad day, boy."

He shakes his head, silver hair rustling against his pillow. "You chose to turn so you could do what you couldn't when you were alive. So do it. Be who you wanted to be. Do what you wanted to do. You got a hundred more years to get it done, son. Find a way. Me, I don't need no more time. My life was lived. Wasn't always right or good, but it was _mine_. We make mistakes, make choices, and they ain't always the right ones, but what we do after, who we decide to be, what kinda man you become now, that's all you got to focus on. Past is the past."

Damon nodded, his throat tight. "I'll take your word for it."

"Best do." He nods his chin then. "Go on and get the others for me, will ya?"

He stands then, and reaches out a hand.

Arnett meets it, gives it a firm shake.

"It was an honor to know you, Arnett Bennett."

There is a moment then, silent and heavy, where their eyes meet and a great deal of respect is shared. Damon will carry it in his breast pocket, tight to his heart, for the rest of his life.

When it's time, the other gather around him, Carlisle, Birdie Mae, and Gemma. They form a circle around the bed and hold hands as their voice collect together, a farewell spell, sending Arnett off to meet his peace. He smiles before he dies, memories of his life written in the craggy lines of his face, in the white threads of his hair, the liver spots on his skin, and the calluses of his hands. A life long-lived and well loved.

* * *

 ** _1910_**

Damon visits her grave far too often, he's sure, but as the seasons change and the years pass, he finds himself drawn back to the beginning, to his home, to _her_. He's long replaced the wooden marker that once sat atop her plot with a proper headstone. He brings flowers, bright and full and beautiful, and lays them there for her, thinking absently that they seem such a trivial offering. They'll wither and die and be removed by a keeper. But Bonnie loved flowers, and he has little else to offer.

There is a letter in his pocket, with her slanted writing. The edges of the paper are worn, the folds and creases thin, and he's careful as he removes it. He knows each word by heart, but he likes to have it in front of him, likes to look at the words as she wrote them, at the faded stains of where tears had fallen to stain the page and blot the ink.

He doesn't read it aloud, just to himself, taking in each word in an effort to hear her voice in his head once more. When he's finished, he refolds it and places it back in its envelope, to be sealed away in his pocket once more.

His fingers twitch and stretch, showing his distress. "Arnett passed, well, it's going on two years ago now. I know you weren't… You didn't know him well, but… I think you would have liked him. Birdie Mae got sick last winter, but she managed through. She has time left in her yet…" He licks his lips and bends to a crouch, reaching for the precise writing of her name on the stone. "There are some days when time seems to trickle by. When waiting for you seems so… _bleak_. And others, it flies by, weeks and months and years even, and suddenly waiting feels like it is the most doable task I've ever been faced with."

He swallows tightly. "And then I wonder at my selfishness, to bid time to speed itself up, that it should eat those I hold dear now so I might find peace in you once more… You told me once that I was selfish." He smiles. "Perhaps more than once. I didn't see the fault in it, not truly. I wanted _you_. I always had. From the moment I met you, my life changed, my wants, my attention, narrowed. I was ready to do anything, to sacrifice anyone, in my pursuit of you. I know now what you meant when you said that there are consequences, that wanting shouldn't always mean having."

Brow furrowed, he shakes his head. "I wouldn't take back my time with you. I don't— I could never _regret_ you. I only regret my own inaction, my selfishness, my inability to hear you. It seems hollow to say it here, to make promises that I won't be that same man. Perhaps this is my opportunity to prove it. Rather than seeing this as my penance, this slow passing of time before we are reunited, I can instead see it as an opportunity. To be the man you deserved. To be better than I once was. Not just for you, but for the Bennetts as well."

He licks his lips a moment and swallows tightly. "I owe them a debt. I owe them my life in many respects. They have become the family I always wanted, whether I deserved it or not. So while I miss you, and I _do_ miss you, I want you to know that I'm surviving. I have people I love with me. People I will stand beside, and who will stand with me." He stares at the headstone once more. "I love you, Little Bird. And I promise you, when you return, I will be a better man than the one who ran."

A crow caws shrilly on a neighboring headstone, and rather than an omen, he takes it as a message received.

Of course, life saw fit to take his words as a challenge.

* * *

 **author's note** : _sorry this update took a bit longer. i kept fleshing it out. we're moving into 1912 soon, so we get to see stefan next chapter, yay! and we're moving away from salem and into city life soon too. we're also going to see damon getting a little darker in the coming years, as they get away from small town life and start meeting other supernaturals. his protective instincts will be flaring more with the bennetts beginning to spread out._

 _thanks so much for reading! please try to leave a review!_

 **\- lee | fina**


	6. monster

**warning(s)** : violence, minor character death  
 **word count** : 8,740  
 **summary** : Damon's never been one to consider the consequences, so when his cowardice causes the demise of his first love, he'll do anything to make it right. Including making a deal with a witch. [reincarnation fic]

* * *

 **VI.**

 ** _1912_**

"Stop fiddling so much, you look fine."

Matthew frowns. "This tie is too tight."

Damon rolls his eyes. "Hardly. You're just not used to dressing like this."

"If I had to choose between dressing up like this every day and how I dress at home, I'd gladly leave city life behind me."

"Mystic Falls is hardly the city. Besides, it's respectful to wear a suit to a funeral." He grins. "We're nothing if not respectful."

With a snort, Matthew shakes his head. "So who is it you lost then?"

"Zachariah Salvatore, a distant nephew." Damon casts his eyes over the cemetery, various unfamiliar faces crowding around the Salvatore crypt, all dressed in black.

"You know him well?"

"No, but I was feeling particularly nostalgic."

"For a funeral?" Matthew raises an eyebrow.

"For home." He tucks his arms behind his back as they walk closer. "I'm surprised Auberine was all right with you joining me on this trip. Frank's hardly a year old."

"Plenty of family to keep watch over them. I talked to Remy before we left too. He said he'd keep an extra eye out for any strangers."

Damon hums. "Married life suits you well. Auberine seems to have settled in nicely. If you're not careful, she'll become Birdie Mae's favorite, after Frank anyway."

Chuckling, Matthew shook his head. "Ber loves her just as much."

They reached the crowd then and fell silent as the funeral began. Damon watched curiously, listening distantly to the prayers that were offered and the vague words of sympathy that are passed to Zachariah's friends and loved ones. His wife is the only one openly weeping, holding an embroidered handkerchief to her mouth as her shoulders shake. Her free hand rests on her son's shoulder; Tomas is hardly ten years old and far too stoic for his age.

When the funeral eventually ends, Damon turns to Matthew. "How would you like to see the rest of town? I believe my house is still standing, though I'm sure no one lives in it…"

"Sure. But first, I was hoping you might show me where mama's mother was buried."

Damon looks back to him, surprised, his brows hiked. "Emily?" He nods. "Of course."

They're walking away together, side by side, when Damon hears a familiar voice, and his feet stumble to a stop.

"Damon?" Matthew asks.

But he shakes his head, his ears extended to that voice in the distance.

" _…I'm sorry. I don't mean to be... inappropriate. But no one seems to be willing to discuss the details of Zachariah's death."_

Turning his head, Damon searches out the source, and finds his brother standing in front of two young women, one of whom suggests that Zachariah was, in fact, murdered. Damon's heard the gossip as he and Matthew entered town, that founding family members have recently been the target of an unknown assailant.

Matthew follows his gaze. "Who's that?"

Damon turns to him, and then frowns. For a moment, he considers lying and drawing Matthew away, but there's something heavy in his chest that tells him not to. Truthfully, he's missed his brother, or at least the man he was before he was turned. Wariness fights valiantly against nostalgia.

Taking a deep breath, he lets it out on a sigh, and answers, "My brother."

Matthew's brows tick up with surprise. "He's like you?"

Damon pauses. "I suppose we're about to find out."

A crow caws nearby, and Stefan turns to peer at it.

Taking a step toward his brother, with Matthew keeping pace, Damon says in greeting, "Have you been eating the relatives again?"

Stefan startles and takes a step back in surprise as he turns to face him. A faint smile turns his mouth up. "Damon…"

He tilts his chin down. "It's been a long time, brother."

"It's been almost fifty years…" He pauses a moment before telling him, "I found your letters. Or, as many as I could."

Damon swallows tightly, casting his eyes away to keep his composure. So many letters, filled with so much fear and guilt. Freely written, no filter on his worst insecurities.

"You're still with the Bennetts then?"

A muscle ticks in Damon's cheek before he waves a hand beside him. "Matthew, this is my brother, Stefan Salvatore. Stefan, this is Matthew Bennett, Birdie Mae's eldest son."

With a friendly smile, Matthew holds a hand out for Stefan to shake, which he obliges. "Do you two need some time to talk?" Matthew wonders, looking between them.

"No," Damon answers quickly. He looks to his brother briefly. "We're only passing through for the funeral. I was going to show Matthew some of the sights before we return."

"I could join you," Stefan suggests, looking hopeful.

"I'm not sure—"

"You should," Matthew intervenes, looking to Damon encouragingly. "Fifty years is a long time. Haven't seen Sandrea for near on eight, and I miss her more every day."

The meaning of his words are heavy, and Damon feels them weighing in his gut. While he doesn't argue, he can't help but feel some reticence at Stefan spending any significant time around Matthew. While Stefan appears comfortable and not as desperate and sloppy as he once had, Damon's instinct is to keep himself between the two, just in case.

Seeming to read that in him, Stefan lifts his chin in defense. "I'm not as I was before, Damon. You needn't fear what I might do."

"I don't _fear_ you, brother. I fear for others _around_ you." Damon stares at Stefan seriously. "Matthew is under my protection. Whatever happened here, whether you had a hand in Zachariah's death—"

"I didn't."

"—is no business of mine. So long as you don't harm Matthew."

Stefan grinds his teeth. "I promise you, I am no more threat to Matthew than you are."

"And I should take your word for it?" Damon's brow arches. "Is Alexia with you? Is _anyone_ here that can help your curb your appetite?"

"Alexia and I have parted ways. She felt I was strong enough that I didn't need her guidance every day. We're still friends, and should I need it, I know she's there. But I'm telling you, I'm not as I was."

"Even if that's true, it's too large a risk."

Stefan stares at him, barely hiding his hurt, and nods as he turns his eyes away.

"I'll take it," Matthew pipes up. "The risk, I mean."

Damon sighs. "Matthew…"

"It's my life, isn't it?" He grins as he claps Damon's shoulder. "We're only here for so long. What's one night? Mama would tell you to enjoy it."

Grimacing, Damon glances back to Stefan, who's looking hopeful once more.

Gathering his courage, Stefan inquires, "Grab a drink with me? Both of you." He smiles at Damon. "I've missed you, brother."

While he still feels the persistent need to get away from Stefan and what he represents, he relents under his brother's heavy stare and Matthew's encouraging grin.

"Sure. Why not?"

Stefan's smile widens, and he nods happily, moving to stand at his side.

Together, the three of them walk away.

Afternoon has bled into evening when they find a fair is in town. With a bottle shared between the three of them, they wander inside a tent to find a boxing ring at the center.

Waving his hand toward Matthew, it smacks against his chest as Damon says, "Don't tell your mother where I brought you."

Matthew laughs lightly. "Gladly."

In the ring, a beautiful red headed woman takes on a man, hardly breaking a sweat as she knocks him out cold and raises her arm in triumph.

Damon skirts around the collected crowd, watching curiously, while Stefan and Matthew crowd in on either side of him.

"One hundred dollars to any man who can beat me," the woman taunts the room, casting devilish eyes about.

Briefly, Damon is reminded of Katherine, of the twisted personality she hid behind coquettish smiles and an innocent beauty. There's an oddly beguiling aura about this woman. Something sinister that lurks behind honeyed looks. Bonnie was the opposite, lips that were often upturned in a smirk, but behind all that gumption she was just as young and hopeful as he was naïve and lovestruck.

"So, what's the story here then?" Matthew wonders, taking a drag from the bottle as he looks between them.

Stefan's face twists with shame. He casts his eyes around to make sure no one is listening and then leans a little closer to share. "We were turned at the same time, Damon and I. But my control was never as strong as his. When I drink human blood, I become obsessed with it."

"A ripper," Matthew says knowingly.

"Yes, a violent one." Damon grinds his teeth. "After your grandmother passed, I had a duty to your family, and I decided it was safer if we left Mystic Falls."

"And me," Stefan adds.

"I had to do what was right for them. You were out of control. A danger to anybody you met."

"And you were my _brother_ ," he stresses, staring up at him. "I needed you."

"You had Alexia," Damon defends. "She promised she would help you and, as you've repeatedly said, she _did_."

"Regardless, it would have helped to have you there."

"I promised Emily—"

"Why didn't you return? After you found them a safe place. Why didn't you come back for me?" When Damon doesn't answer, Stefan stares at him knowingly. "Because you were ashamed of me. Of what I'd become."

"Because I couldn't help you. I had no idea what you were going through or why you were the way you were. It was like a sickness and I had no cure. So I did what I could do, which was keep the Bennetts alive and well."

"And now? You still guard them from me. Still think I'm a _threat_ to them."

"You think you're the only ripper I've met?" he snaps. "The last one nearly destroyed this family. I won't let it happen again."

Stefan's brow furrows. "So that it's then? I'm an enemy for the rest of my life?"

"You're a threat that I can't afford to ignore." Damon swallows tightly then, and looks away.

"I've found control. I don't feed from humans. I only consume animal blood. Damon, _please_ …" He reaches for him, squeezing his arm beseechingly. "What do I have to do to prove myself to you?"

Damon looks down at Stefan's hand, but before he can push it off, or argue, or say something he might regret, Matthew intervenes.

"Think you might need some fresh air, hm?" he suggests, tugging on Damon's shoulders to release him of Stefan's grip. "I'll stay here. Keep an eye on things."

Damon frowns at him, and looks to Stefan.

Somewhere between exasperated and hurt, Stefan tells him, "He's safe, I promise."

"We both know if I needed to, I could defend myself just fine," Matthew adds, nodding. "Go on, get some air, maybe have something to _eat_ …"

Lingering a moment, Damon eventually nods, and turns to leave. He keeps his hearing tuned to them, however. He's unwilling to go far, but Matthew's right. He hasn't eaten since the day before, and part of his animosity toward his brother may be stemming from that. Further, he knows Matthew is powerful. If Stefan were to attack, Matthew would be able to hold his own, at least until Damon returned to help.

Making his way outside the tent, he takes a walk, searching for an easy target to feed from. The cool, fresh air feels good, calms him from his earlier defensiveness. He wasn't expecting to see Stefan today. For years now, he's been wondering where his brother was and if he was well, but now that he's here, he has no idea what to do. He wants him to be okay, even wants to reminisce with him, but there's a resentment that bubbles up as soon as he remembers just what his brother is at his core. _A ripper_. He can hear Sandrea's cries in his ears and it sends his heart to his stomach.

It isn't long before he's behind the tent, drinking from a young woman's neck. He plans to let her live; to compel her to forget and feed her some of his own blood to close the wound. But then another woman is there; the red head from the boxing ring.

"How _sad_. You're doing it all wrong."

Damon whirls toward her, sneering at her condescending smirk. As his victim slips limply to the ground, he draws a handkerchief from his pocket and blots the blood from his mouth and hands.

She walks toward him, hips swaying enticingly. " _Bad_ vampire…"

"I hadn't realized I'd asked for an audience, nor a judge." His eyebrow arches. "If you'll excuse me…"

"What's the hurry?" She smirks. "Your witch is fine, I'm sure."

Damon snarls, his eyes turning a bloody black and the veins of his face becoming more pronounced. "Stay away from my witch."

The woman tuts, rolling her eyes. "Don't be so obvious."

Damon flashes forward, grabs her by the neck and pins her to a wooden pole. "If you've touched one hair on his head—"

"I haven't," she chokes from beneath his hand, though she doesn't look surprised or even worried. If anything, she seems somewhat amused. When his hand loosens a little, she continues, "He and your other compatriot are attempting to arm wrestle for spectators."

Damon blinks, then frowns. "If you're lying—"

"I have no reason to." She presses a hand to his chest, but doesn't push him away. Instead she slides a finger under the lapel of his jacket to skim over his vest. "What makes a vampire beholden to a witch?"

"It's no business of yours." He releases her neck and steps away from her, straightening his clothes to gather his wits. When he's done, he side-steps, eager to take his leave.

She moves to block him. "Tell me, what pleasure did you find in the woman?"

"Her?" He looks back to his victim. Her breathing is shallow, but she's alive, at least. "I wasn't seeking pleasure. I was hungry, she was there; it's a very simple concept."

"A woman isn't just for _food_ ," she tells him, sounding greatly offended. "She's for _pleasure_."

Damon hasn't been tempted for some time. Katherine was different. He gravitated to her when the guilt and sorrow was fresh, when he'd thought there was no chance he'd ever have his Bonnie back. But now... things are different. He lives and breathes for the day the comet will return and he will have her back. And Safe offers little to sway his thinking.

Smiling insincerely, Damon's eyes narrow at her. "I have known a great many women in my life who would argue that their purpose far transcends pleasure or food."

He begins to walk away, but she takes his arm to draw him back, forcing him around to face her. "You've spent too much time surrounded by mediocre humanity," she accuses. "What is being a vampire if not relishing in the pleasure of it?" Her hands wander across his front enticingly as she grins up at him.

Damon catches her wrists and keeps them subdued. "The humans I surround myself with are far from mediocre. And what pleasure I seek as a vampire is not due for another ninety-seven years. In the meantime, I'm spoken for."

She twists her arms to rid them of his grip. "We are all spoken for in some way." Backing up, she turns on her heel to leave, and grins at him over her shoulder. "If you change your mind, I can show you a way to live that will make the time pass more swiftly."

As she disappears inside the tent, Damon lingers a moment longer. He turns and walks back toward the woman he'd been feeding on. Lifting her up, he seeks out her pulse, and finds it still steady under his fingers. Feeding her his blood, he wipes her neck clean and watches the wound close. When she startles awake, she's confused, but he compels her to reason and sends her on her way.

Alone once more, he takes a moment to gather himself, and then starts back inside the tent.

There are new people fighting in the ring, and the crowd cheers them on heartily. Damon bypasses the sight, seeking out Matthew and his brother. When he finds them, he pauses, alarm bells sounding in his ears. The red-haired woman is smiling at each of them, leaning on the table and laughing at something Matthew says.

Damon's teeth grind before he makes his way over.

"Damon, this is Sage. She was fighting earlier," Stefan introduces.

"We've met," he replies curtly, standing protectively at Matthew's side. "It's late. Matthew and I need to be going."

"You're not staying?" Stefan asks, frowning. "You should at least stay until morning. Matthew wanted to visit Emily's grave, didn't he?"

"Perhaps another time." Damon looks to Matthew severely.

Seeming to understand, he stands from his stool. "It's fine. I'm sure we'll make our way back through town another day." He grins good-naturedly. "Or maybe Stefan can visit us sometime."

"I would be happy to," Stefan agrees, nodding.

"You're sure you don't want to stay? The night's only just beginning," Sage says, eyeing each of them.

Damon frowns at her. "Enjoy yourselves, truly."

She smirks suggestively. "Oh, we will."

Matthew circles around behind them and Damon follows, pausing at his brother's side. He casts wary eyes toward Sage. "You should turn in too," he tells Stefan. "It's been a long day."

"I will," Stefan agrees. He reaches for Damon, a hand settling on his shoulder. "We should visit again soon. There is… much I'd like to talk about."

Damon stares at him a long moment, at the uncertainty and sadness clouding his features. With a sigh, he reaches for Stefan, and pulls him in for a hug. "No matter what you've done or what you do, you'll always be my brother."

"You mean that?" Stefan's hand grips the back of his jacket tightly. "I have doubts sometimes… It would seem you've found family elsewhere."

"I can have more than one family." He squeezes him one last time before he releases him. "Take care, Stefan."

He stares back at him, and nods. "And you."

Moving to stand by Matthew, he looks back just once, dismissing the coy smile on Sage's lips, and focuses on the faint smile on Stefan's.

Later, he would wonder if he should have stayed, if he could have stopped Stefan from the spiral that was to come, if he could have helped avoid the birth of the _Ripper of Monterrey_. But fate stepped in quite unkindly, and sent Stefan down a path that Damon could not follow.

* * *

...

* * *

"Seems every time I see you lately, you've got something heavy on your mind," Carlisle says, taking a seat in the chair across from him as he fiddles with pulling his boots on.

Damon glances over at him, half-smiles. "Remembering simpler times, I suppose."

Carlisle hums. "Things only seem simple when they're far away. When they're up close and you're going through 'em, that's when they seem hardest."

"You make a good point."

"Birdie Mae's expecting me for supper." He dusts his hands as he stands from his chair. "Nice enough out, I was gonna walk over. You going?"

"Not tonight."

"Suit yourself." Carlisle nods at him in farewell before he lumbers down the stairs and starts the walk down the path leading toward Birdie Mae's.

Damon's attention turns back out to the field, and with it, his mind wanders, to a time when things seemed so very simple, and so very right…

 ** _1861_**

 _Bonnie sits high atop a horse as he leads it through the field by the reins. Her knuckles are white, she's holding on so tightly, and her eyes are wide with worry._

 _"She won't throw you off," Damon assures, grinning._

 _"You don't know what she'll do! Just because she hasn't yet, doesn't mean she won't!"_

 _Shaking his head, he continues walking. "She can tell you're nervous."_

 _"Anybody with eyes can tell I'm nervous." Bonnie gnaws at her lip. "I don't like it up here. Why can't we just groom her back in the barn?"_

 _"She needed a walk, and the barn smells."_

 _Her mouth ticks up in amusement. "Well, we wouldn't want to offend your sensitive nose…"_

 _He looks back at her, a brow raised. "Are you teasing me, Miss Bennett?"_

 _"And if I am?"_

 _He grins slowly, and then draws the horse to a stop._

 _Eyeing him warily now, she frowns. "What are you doing…?"_

 _"Enjoying a day of riding. Isn't it obvious?"_

 _"Damon…" she says warningly._

 _Ignoring her, he steps back, and with the ease of a practiced rider, he draws himself up and onto the horse, seated just behind her. "There. See?" He takes the reins, gives the horse a gentle nudge with the heel of his foot, and they're moving._

 _Bonnie's breath catches, and Damon can feel her grow tense in front of him._

 _"Calm down. She's a good horse." He lowers his head so his cheek brushes her temple. "I promise you, you're safe."_

 _"You can't make promises like that," she whispers, but her hands fall to his knees, gripping the fabric of his trousers tightly._

 _"Like what?"_

 _"That you can't possibly keep."_

 _He hums, drops a kiss to her cheek, and says, "I have every intention of keeping it."_

 _"Intention guarantees nothing. The road to hell is paved with good intentions."_

 _"Have you been reading that proverbs book of Stefan's?"_

 _"I have, and so should you. You might learn something."_

 _"Heaven forbid." He smirks, nuzzling her neck with his nose. "Do you think I'd truly let anything happen to you?"_

 _"I think some things are out of your control, whether you believe it so or not." She leans back then, resting against his chest, and reaches a hand up, her palm brushing his cheek. "I have faith in you, Damon. It's the rest of the world I hope little for."_

 _Humming, he presses a kiss to the hinge of her jaw, and covers her hand with his own. "The world cannot touch us."_

 _She smiles gently, softly, and turns her head to see him. "If only that were true."_

If only.

* * *

 **...**

* * *

 ** _1913_**

Damon finds her by a creek, her feet are buried against the craggy rocks and the ends of her tattered dress skim the top of the water. He watches her a moment, her eyes distant, rimmed red and puffy with tears she's long since cried. Ailish isn't the same little girl who used to follow him at a distance, curious and stubborn and eager to know someone she shouldn't. She's a woman of nineteen, and her hands cradle her stomach, where a baby once grew, and was now laid to rest in the dirt.

"I named him Alby," she says, as if she knows he's there, but she hasn't once turned her head, staring out into the woods, gaze hollow and absent. "Papa said he wasn't strong enough. That the weak die so the strong can prevail…" Her throat bobs as she swallows. "He was _mine_."

He walks toward her slowly, keeping an eye out for any sign she might snap. Remy warned him that her being sensitive could mean she wasn't as in control of her other side, the wolf that would want to tear his flesh from his bones without remorse. And there is rage there, it fires up inside, met only by her own fragility in that moment.

"He was beautiful," she whispers. "I held him, here in my hands, as he took his first breaths… And his last." Her fingers curl into her palms, and he can smell the blood as her nails score her skin. "Some of the girls, they think it was my fault. I was too reckless. I didn't rest like I should. I made him weak." Her teeth grit in a snarl, but a tear trickles down her cheek.

Damon reaches for her, unfurls one hand and binds it with his own. "They're wrong."

She looks to him then, searching his face for any sign of deception.

"They're _wrong_ ," he insists. "Sometimes, life is cruel. It takes away good people, _strong_ people, for no other reason than because it can. And we're left behind to suffer their loss." He strokes a thumb atop her hand. "But if I've learned anything, it's that having the right people by your side will help you through just about anything."

Ailish sniffles then, her shoulders slumping, and she doesn't quite look like the fierce wolf he's come to know. She returns to looking like that little girl that trailed at his heels, looking for a friend in someone who should be a foe. "Will you help me?" she asks, her voice as fragile as newly spun glass.

He squeezes her hand. "I will."

She leans over then, and rests her head against his shoulder. And Damon wonders when it is he became any good at helping others grieve, when he's still not mastered the art of it himself.

* * *

 **...**

* * *

"Have you ever met a ripper?" Damon wonders, arms tucked at his back.

"Two," Remy tells him. "They were terrorizing a small town. The victims were left to rot in the streets, propped up like dolls, sitting on porches, standing in shops… We dealt with them."

Damon hums, his mouth pursed. "My brother is a ripper. He claims he had it under control for a time. That he was surviving on animal blood. But… Last year, he was tempted by another vampire, and any progress he made was destroyed." He frowns, coiling his fingers in tight against his palm. "I knew she was deceptive when I met her, but I left her in his company. I prioritized Matthew and decided to leave, knowing that Stefan was with her."

"Your brother is his own person. Any choices he makes are on him."

"But aren't mine on me as well? If I knew she was trouble and I didn't tell him… If I left him with her… My choice was to do nothing. She'd made vague references to Matthew, to myself, and I knew, deep down, that she would only lead to suffering. I could have asked Stefan to come with us, but I was still so…"

"You didn't trust him."

"Not completely." He sighs, his shoulders slumping. "I love him. He's my _brother_. And no matter what he's done, I'll always love him. But I've seen what he can do. I've seen what he becomes. And I couldn't risk Matthew's well-being." His brow furrows. "But did I risk Stefan's instead?"

Remy sighs, strokes his fingers over his beard thoughtfully. "Maybe you did."

Hurt, Damon looks to him.

"Sometimes we make choices that don't turn out the way we want. Sometimes we prioritize people because they need prioritizing. Matthew's human. He's a witch, but he's more fragile than your brother. Stefan may be your family, but he's also a vampire, capable of defending himself better. You thought he could handle temptation; you were proven wrong. You can't know what anybody is going to do. You just prepare yourself for the worst and deal with the fallout."

Damon hums, his gaze on the ground as they walk. "I fear he won't forgive me."

"I wonder if he thinks the same of you."

Brow knit, he turns questioning eyes on Remy. "How's that then?"

"It's no secret that you're not… _fond_ of your own kind. Maybe even because of what Stefan's done in the past. If he is this… _Ripper of Monterrey_ , then he could be worried you won't forgive his latest… _slip_."

"You've heard of him?" Damon's mouth turns down. "I have no evidence it's him. Nothing but a feeling in my gut."

"I trust your gut." Remy shakes his head. "The point is, sometimes we have to separate what we think we know from who we know it about. Which part of Stefan matters more to you? That's he's a vampire or that he's your brother."

"That he's my brother, of course."

"Then you find a way to make it work. Sometimes it's the fear of becoming something that allows us to become it. With werewolves, the ones that fight their nature have a harder time with the change. The ones that accept it, accept who and what they are, find their balance."

"So I have to accept that he's a Ripper."

" _He_ needs to accept he's a Ripper. You need to support him in getting there."

Damon sighs. "I'm not even sure where he is now… And I have to stay, to watch over the Bennetts."

"You have friends willing to help you. Me and mine can keep watch over the witches." Remy claps his shoulder encouragingly. "Family gets you through the worst of anything. If you're willing to let them help."

He smiles faintly. "I suppose I'll find that out soon enough."

* * *

 **...**

* * *

 _Brother,_

 _I have thought of you often since last we met. Of the choices I made, and the choices I dismissed. Of leaving when perhaps I should have stayed. Of not trusting you when you needed it most. These are things I regret. Things I'm certain I will regret for many years to come…_

 _I fear that my decisions have had an unforeseen influence on who you are, who you have become, and who you will be. Or perhaps it is my own arrogance that I attribute your choices to my own. I am not without a steady reserve of ego. But if it was in fact my lack of belief in you that led you down this path, know that it was never my intention. When we said our farewells, I meant what I said. You are and will always be my brother, in blood and mind and heart._

 _When the time comes that our paths cross again, I hope that my trust and belief in you will be renewed. That you will have righted your path once more, as only you have the strength to do. And that we will come together as the family we were meant to be. The Bennetts are not my blood, but I swore an oath that I intend to hold. I will not, however, eject you from my life so completely. Matthew has asked about you, if you're well, if I miss you, if you might visit sometime. They're good people, Stefan. Loyal and loving and full of more forgiveness than I have ever deserved. I think you would like them, and they you._

 _When you're ready, I would like for you to meet. I would like for my families to be whole._

 _Sincerely,  
Damon Salvatore_

* * *

 **...**

* * *

Damon is not one for gardening, so how it is he wound up knees deep in dirt, helping to pull weeds, he has no idea. But Paula was using the situation to her advantage.

"How come? You took Matthew with you when you went traveling," Paula points out.

"Matthew joined me at a _funeral_ , Paula. We weren't exactly taking in the sights."

"Well, it's more sights then I've seen." She frowns. "I want out. I don't wanna live my whole life out here. I want to see what's outside of Salem, what the rest of the world's got to offer me."

"The world is dangerous. At least here, you're somewhat safe."

She harrumphs, throwing her small shovel down. "I ain't gonna hide my head in the dirt so nothing ever happens to me. Sandrea was killed right here in our front yard. If danger wants to find me, it'll come as it pleases. I'd at least like to see some things before I go!"

Jaw drawn tight, Damon sighs, and leans back. "What happened to Sandrea isn't liable to happen again." He feels a tightness in his throat.

"Even if it ain't…" Paula stares at him, her mouth set in a line. "I ain't a doll. I'm not gonna sit on the shelf lookin' pretty for all my life. I want more than what I have here. I want to see New York like Aunt Gemma did. I want to see more than just the same old faces here in Salem." She shakes her head. "You don't have to like it, and you don't have to take me with you, but one way or another, you mark my words, I'm gettin' outta here." With that, she returns to her gardening, and Damon is left to sit and stew and worry.

It takes him nearly a half hour before he says, "I'll speak to Birdie Mae. It's better to have a chaperone than to go out on your own… We can make a plan, decide where to go and where not to, and how long this little trip will take."

Paula grins widely. "Don't look so sad, Damon. It'll be fun, I promise."

Oh, he wasn't so sure about that. While part of him understands her excitement about seeing the world and exploring, another part of him wants to keep her safe in the small town that had become home. Aside from Quinn, it has served them well, but now, with Paula wanting to see more, he wonders if perhaps the others will want to as well.

How long will it be before they were all moving on and spreading out? It's much easier to keep people safe when they're all together, and much harder when the distance is so far. He'll adapt, he knows this. He has to. But that doesn't stop the worry from bubbling up in his stomach. He listens with half an ear as Paula talks about the places she wants to see, all the while wishing the Bennetts wouldn't grow up so fast.

* * *

 **...**

* * *

Some days, he gets lost in his memories of her. Drowns himself in their stolen moments, where time was forgotten in favor of having her close, listening to her talk and laugh and argue with him. He shuts out the world for a time, forgets his responsibilities, and lets a wave of nostalgia and regret and heartbreak tow him away from reality, leaving him swamped in her scent and sound and touch.

 ** _1858_**

 _"Someone will find us," Bonnie tells him, shaking her head. But she doesn't pull away when he takes her hand and draws her closer. Biting her lip, she looks down at how their bodies are pressed together. "This isn't how the other ladies dance... How it is at those parties your father throws…"_

 _He shakes his head. "No. Because that's all for show. Pompous people trying to look sophisticated…" His hand slides around to the small of her back before he takes a step to the left._

 _Bonnie copies his movement, a hand gripping tight to his shoulder. "I think it looks pretty… All the twirling and jumping…"_

 _"Do you want me to twirl you, Miss Bonnie?" He smiles down at her, taking up her fingers and turning her in a circle, close enough that the fabric of her dress brushes against him._

 _Bonnie laughs, a little breathless. "Do it again."_

 _He grins, and does as she pleases. Twirling and twirling and twirling, until she's dizzy with it, and she rests her back against his chest, her head atop his shoulder, closing her eyes as the room spins all around._

 _"How was that?" he wonders, wrapping his arms around her and swaying them side to side gently._

 _She hums. "I like the way we dance."_

 _Damon presses a kiss to her ear. "Me too."_

* * *

 **...**

* * *

 ** _1914_**

It's Ailish that tells him. She arrives on the porch of Birdie Mae's house, wringing her hands, streaks of blood crawling up her arms, her mouth set in a vicious snarl.

He steps outside, still pulling his suspenders over his shoulders. "What's happened?" he asks, brow furrowed.

"They killed him." She balls her hands up into the fabric of her shirt, twisting it under her fingers. "Remy's dead."

Damon's heart lurches. " _What_ …?"

"I found him out in the woods. He's in pieces. Papa says it's been coming a long while. That some of the other pack members got angry that he made a pact with you, to protect you and yours." She juts her chin toward the house, to where a sleepy Birdie Mae has crept out from her room to see what's happening.

"His own packmates killed him?" Damon scowls. "What'll be done about it?"

Ailish shakes her head, her eyes narrowed in a glare, set far away on the woods. " _Nothing_ ," she spits. "The leaders might be excommunicated, told to lead the pack and never come back. But none of 'em are gonna pay with blood." She unwinds her hands from her shirt then and reaches for him, fingers digging into his chest like claws. "I want their _blood_."

Damon stares down at her a long moment, at the fine tremble that runs through her narrow shoulders, the dirt and blood that smudges her skin. He'd known Remy for some time; he considered him one of his fondest friends. The idea that his death would not be avenged sat wrong in him, like a lead weight in his stomach. A wave of anger and a deep, desperate desire for retribution floods through him.

He turns his head to see Birdie Mae, standing tall, her chin raised high. "You know what it means if you do this…?" she asks him. "You go to war, war follows you home."

If he exacts revenge on the members of the pack that killed Remy, the pact between the Bennetts and the wolves would be nil and void. And with a full moon around the corner, that was nothing to scoff at. But could he actively choose to allow Remy's death to go unpunished? Was that something Remy would ask of him?

"Damon…" Ailish stares up at him with yellow eyes, desperate for blood, for vengeance, for a balm to her grief. "If you won't…" Her hands drop to her sides. "I _will_." She turns on her heel and marches down the stairs, barefoot and rippling with rage.

He watches her a moment, before he turns to Birdie Mae. "If it were me, he would make those who killed me pay for my death."

"Remy was an old soul. Ain't no way he didn't know what could happen if he went making deals with vampires and witches… He lived a good, long life, did what he had to do, said what he had to say, made friends with the folk he wanted to."

"You think I blame myself for his death?"

"Don't you?"

Damon frowns. "I'm not certain."

"If you go chasing revenge, you best be ready to die for it. Takes just one bite from a wolf and you won't be here any more. Not to watch out for me or mine or for Ailish neither. Sometimes what we have to do means more that what we _want_ to do."

"If they killed Remy because of the deal he made with me, then there's a chance that they'll kill anyone related to that deal… There's no reason to honor the promises we made to each other if he's not here to uphold them… They could come for you, for Carlisle and the children too."

"We ain't your excuse to spill blood, Damon. Don't use us as one. You want to kill the wolves that killed your friend, you go on and do that. But don't do it in my name, I won't have it."

"What if it were you?" he wonders, taking a step toward her. "Was it any different when it was Quinn?"

She flinches. "I didn't force you to kill him."

"You wouldn't have stopped me." His brow furrows then. "I've put distance between myself and my brother, for _years_ , because of what he is, what I _saw_ him as. But if you want the truth, we aren't so different… I love blood. I would _bathe_ in blood without an ounce of shame. I curb my appetites, I release my victims, but I still use them. I still _enjoy_ what I take from them. And death, _killing_ , it doesn't blacken my soul as much as it should. Quinn _deserved_ to die. For ever touching a hair on Sandrea's head."

Birdie Mae lifts her chin, angry and sad in equal measure.

" _Anyone_ who dares to come after you, after _any_ Bennett, will have to answer to me." He stabs a finger at his chest. "And I won't weep for the loss. I won't regret their deaths. Not one moment. If that makes me a monster, then I'm a willing one. Because if it is the only thing I ever do on this earth, it will be to keep those I love safe. You, your family, Stefan, Ailish, and Remy, you are all _mine_. My people, my family, my friends. Anyone who threatens that, for any reason, will die by my hand."

Birdie Mae doesn't answer right away, just takes him in, lets his words hang in the air. And then she nods. "That's the way of it?"

"It is."

She nods.

Damon stares at her. "You're right though. It won't be in your name. Any blood I spill will be in mine."

With a hum, she takes a deep breath, and walks toward him. "If this is what you wanna do, I won't stop you… Not 'cause I believe in it, but 'cause I know you. Know how you think. How stubborn you are…"

His mouth ticks up faintly.

She nods. "They'll be waitin'. Waitin' for you to slip up, make a mistake, give 'em a chance to get you first."

"Then I'd better move soon." His eyes turn a bloody black while his teeth lengthen in his mouth. "There's no time to waste."

Unmoved by the other, darker side of him, she reaches up to pat a hand over his heart. "Be safe."

He smiles, all teeth. "Of course." He walks to the stairs then. "You as well."

As he makes his way toward the treeline, where an anxious Ailish waits for him, he hears Birdie Mae's voice, twisting and turning an incantation around, a protection spell for her and her blood.

Damon presses a hand to Ailish's shoulder, squeezing. "Let's go hunting..."

She smirks back at him, and then runs into the woods, wild and free and out for blood.

He flashes after her, fierce and unleashed and eager to do damage.

* * *

 **...**

* * *

The chase is his favorite part. Sure, there's something beautiful about rending flesh from bone, head from shoulders, heart from chest. But the chase is glorious; the anticipation makes his blood sing and his heart pound and every sense turn on high. Here, he is a predator. Here, he is an animal. Here, he is the darkness. The monster. The eater of souls and hearts and man alike.

Damon follows them through the trees, listens to their hearts hammer, smells the fear and terror and rage that wafts off of them. He lets them think they might make it, might outrun him, might outfight him, but in the end, there is no chance. They get in a few hits; they outmaneuver him a time or two; they snap their lethal teeth at his loose limbs. But none of them bite him like they need to. None of them are quick enough, smart enough, elusive enough, to get away.

And so they don't.

Between him and Ailish, the perpetrators fall. They lay in pieces. Bloody and separated, broken and defeated. And in the center of it all stand the victors, alive with retribution and dead with grief. And then the others come, the howling, angry, blame-ready pack.

* * *

 **...**

* * *

Damon sits on a fallen log, blood dripping from his hands. Scratches can be seen across his face, arms, chest and legs, slowly but surely healing.

Ailish paces in front of him, chest heaving, blood and dirt streaking her skin.

Her father stomps toward her. "You attacked your own pack members," Roibeárd accuses. "You conspired with a _leech!_ There's no excuse for that."

"What excuse was there for killing Remy?" she snaps back. "He was our leader."

"He was a _traitor_ ," Roibeárd shouts. "Siding with the vampire, making deals with the witches… Those aren't our ways."

"Not _your_ ways!" Ailish yells, turning to face him, her heart pounding and a vein throbbing at her forehead. "Remy was pack. He was _family_. And you all let him be killed. You let the real traitors that killed him walk free. Well I _didn't_. I made a choice, the _only_ choice, and I made them pay for their actions."

"And him?" Roibeárd points to Damon. "What part did he play?"

"If I remember correctly, I pulled the spine from one, beheaded another, and unseated a third's heart from her chest." Damon waves a bloody hand around. "Less than I wanted to do but I had to be careful. Your bite is particularly _cruel_ to my kind."

Roibeárd growls at him, eyes an eerie yellow.

Ailish steps in his path, her chin held high. "Damon was Remy's friend. He was our _ally_. When the hunter came, _he_ was the one who saved us. He has never harmed any of you. Never asked anything except that we spare the Bennetts. He is _not_ our enemy."

"He is a _leech_ ," Roibeárd bellows.

"He is my _friend_ ," she roars back, and slams a fist against her own chest."And if you want his end, I'll show you _yours_."

He pauses then, eyes narrowed on her. "You'd challenge my right as leader?"

"Remy was my leader." She spits in the dirt at his feet. "You're no leader of mine."

"I am your _father_. Your _blood_."

She bares her teeth at him. "I am my own wolf." Her foot slides back for balance as she readies herself to lunge.

Damon frowns. "Ailish."

" _What?_ "

"You can't risk yourself for us."

"I can," she argues, mouth set stubbornly. "And I _will_."

Damon stands, somewhat amused when the rest of the pack stiffens warily. He holds his hands up to show he is no threat. "Your father is a smart man. He knows that killing me means that the Bennetts will exact revenge… There's enough of them, enough power between them, to wipe out this entire pack in a blink." He snaps his fingers for emphasis.

Roibeárd scowls, but doesn't argue different.

"Remy made us an offer once, to live together in peace, offer each other some semblance of safety… I offer something else." Damon casts his gaze across the whole pack. "The wolves that were killed here today were traitors. They killed Remy and paid for their choices. I have no quarrel with the rest of you. But the suspicion will always be there…" To Roibeárd he says, "And if you were to make the same decision that Remy did, it makes you a target. That hardly seems fair."

"Then what do you propose?"

"We'll leave."

Murmurs break out over the crowd.

" _What?_ " Ailish asks, a cry more than a question.

"It's time we moved on anyway," Damon continues. "It's only a matter of time before townsfolk begin to wonder at my lack of aging. And the Bennetts are curious about what the world might have to offer them. They'll renew the spell on the woods to keep you and yours safe during the full moon. And you let us leave, without bloodshed. No one else has to die today."

"Damon," Ailish says, quiet, confused, and seeking understanding.

He squeezes her forearm to quiet her, and though her mouth closes, he can see the stubborn set of her chin.

Roibeárd peers at him a long moment, before looking back to the pack. And then he nods. "You leave. _Immediately_. And you don't come back. Or the only blood gettin' spilled will be you and yours."

"We'll need a day, to get everything packed away."

"Fine."

Damon holds a hand out then, and while Roibeárd eyes it with distaste, he reaches back. It's a brief shake, with both of them drawing away quickly.

With little more to say, Roibeárd turns on his heel and walks away.

The pack slowly dissipates, going their separate ways.

Ailish turns on him, tearing her arm from his hand. "You're _leaving?_ "

"It's a choice I made long before this," he tells her. "The others have been talking about it. It's time to move on. We've been here too long already."

"This is their home. It's _your_ home."

He smiles at her gently. "It's your home, Ailish. And it always will be."

"If you leave…"

"I can visit."

"You _can't_. You heard what Papa said…"

"Then we meet somewhere. A halfway point. I'll bring Paula to visit too." He shakes his head. "I'm not leaving you."

"You _are!_ " she shouts, and shoves at his chest, making him stumble back a step. "You said you were my friend, my _family_."

"I am. I always will be."

"Liar," she accuses viciously. "You're leaving me, just like Remy did, like _Alby_ —"

He takes her shoulders into his hands and holds her still as she struggles. "They didn't want to leave you, Ailish. _I_ don't want to leave you. But I have to take care of the Bennetts. Sometimes what we have to do means more that what we _want_ to do…"

Her eyes fill with tears. "I'll be alone," she whispers hoarsely. "I don't wanna be alone."

Damon pulls her in for a hug, wrapping his arms around her tightly. She clings to him, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt.

"You'll be okay. You're strong."

She buries her face against his chest and just holds on.

* * *

 **...**

* * *

Remy's body burns on a pyre. The pack surrounds him, hands bound together, and sing a song, a prayer, a farewell to their fallen leader. Ailish sings the loudest.

Damon watches from the cover of the trees as the fire grows higher and higher, consuming what's left of his friend, sending black clouds of smoke up to the heavens.

He turns and walks back through the woods, to rejoin the Bennetts who are busy packing up. It seems Birdie Mae had expected something like this when he'd left that morning; she'd already been getting things ready for the move.

Damon comes to a stop just outside of Carlisle's porch. He's smoking a pipe and staring out over the field.

"I'm sorry," Damon tells him. "If I hadn't attacked the other members of the pack…"

"Apologies don't do much but make us wonder about things that aren't." Carlisle leans back in his seat and turns his gaze to Damon. "Was a time when I feared what something like you might do. Could do. To me and mine. I don't worry anymore."

"Have I been tamed?" he jokes flatly.

"No. Not nearly." Carlisle shakes his head, and takes another puff off the pipe. "Way I see it, it's better to be your friend than your enemy. You keep what you love close. Never let anything bad touch it. And when it tries to, you make sure it never touches nothing ever again. Could be, some people think that's something to avoid, get afraid of…"

He hums, and raised a curious eyebrow. "But you don't?"

"I think we all got a little darkness in us. Some of us are better at keeping it down, snuffin' it out, makin' like it was never there. Some of us embrace it, let it take us over, _become_ us. And some of us… Some of us let it loose when it needs to be loose." He shakes his head. "If I could'a killed Quinn with my own two bare hands, I would. Wouldn't regret one second of it neither. As it was, your hands were faster."

Damon blinks, unsure how to respond, and simply stares at Carlisle a long moment.

"Some would say there's a monster in you, Damon Salvatore…"

He swallows tightly, and tucks his arms behind his back, a hand around his wrist.

"I say there's a human in you."

With that, Carlisle stands from his chair. "Come on now… These old bones need some help packing." He makes his way inside, leaving the door open behind him.

Damon hesitates only a moment, and then he follows Carlisle up the stairs.

* * *

 **author's note** : _i've had most of this chapter finished for a while, but then became distracted with other stories and fandoms. my bad. on the bright side, now i'm very tvd focused, so here's hoping i get out more updates. please don't ask for any stories specifically. i'm doing what i can when i can._

 _this marks the transition toward the city. the bennetts are leaving the small town life behind. well, most of them. and are branching out and beginning their lives and families elsewhere. we'll still see ailish and her family though. damon's good to his word._

 _someone asked for a little more bonnie too, so i hope this satisifes. there will be more flashbacks as we go forward._

 _I've noticed quite the decline in reviews lately, so if you can, please try to leave a review!_

 _thanks so much for reading,_

 **\- Lee | Fina**


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